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If you prick us, do we not bleed?

If you tickle us, do we not laugh? I

f you poison us, do we not die?

And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

William Shakespeare,

The Merchant of Venice,

Act III, Scene I

The deep purple was velvety soft as he stroked a gloved fingertip over the petal; the stalk bent under the caress like a lover. Even as the snow fell outside, the wolfsbane was one of his favorite among the vibrant blooms that lined the walls of his workshop.   Belladonna, oleander, and nightshade were in their own ornate pots, runes etched in the sides. With a snip, he cut off the wolfsbane flower, catching it as it fell in a stone mortar bowl then carrying it over to the table. Picking up the pestle, he began to crush it with careful strokes. Footsteps sounded in the corridor just as he was finishing pulverizing the plant. The steady clop, clop, clop on the polished wood stopped in the doorway; only after he’d scraped the powder into a small flat plate and lined it up next to the other ingredients did he look around and nod. 
 
“The visitor has arrived, Sire.” The servant kept his eyes downcast, focused on his feet, careful to stay outside the open door. “I have put them in the trophy room to await your leisure.” 
 
His lips turned up in a smile, cheeks stretching the material of the mask that protected his nose and face. Despite his upbringing, Piotyr had a wicked streak that matched his master’s; he was the perfect majordomo. 
 
“To have traveled in this weather, they must truly be desperate,” he said. “I do so love those willing to do anything for their cause. Give it two, no three candle marks before you bring them here; fifteen minutes after sundown with the trophies should be enough to shake even the strongest true believer’s heart.”
 
“Yes, Sire,” Piotyr replied. The servant’s  countenance didn’t change, but he could tell the man was pleased with the order. 
 
“And make sure they brought the necessary ingredient. If they didn’t, well, you know what to do.” 
 
He had all the parts of the spell on hand, so sure that the supplicant would return. 
 
Those who sought his skills were either desperate souls or drowning in their own convictions. This was the latter; politics made such strange bedfellows. He’d long ago stopped trying to intuit why humans so readily turned on each other over the most esoteric things. Power, yes, he knew the allure of being in control, having every desire fulfilled at a word. There’d been a time when he had been poor and cold, starvation a constant specter; he’d been the acolyte, life in the hands of a capricious master. He’d killed for safety, a roof over his head, and a crust of bread. That he understood. But now that he was the master, so many knocked on his door wanting vengeance, their rightful place, more than someone else, sure they were right and everyone else was wrong. 
 
He began the mixture, measuring twice before adding each ingredient in the correct order to the bronze cauldron perched on a tripod. This one was a delicate spell, stretching the connection thin and warping it into something else entirely. For over a century, he’d studied the power of blood, the balance of humors in the life-giving red liquid, following where inquiry took him.  The Collegium masters had thrown him out for his theories, the Church had called him a blasphemer and a heretic, both casting him away when they couldn’t stop his experiments. He’d known it was as much about him as it was the magic he’d been working with; disturbed, they called him, an aberration, because he’d been willing to do what had to be done to find answers. So he’d left, wandered wide, found those like him who delved into the darker areas. Bided his time as he learned, selling potions, simple at first then more complex, until the ones who’d known him retired or died and everyone else forgot his name. Settled in the mountains, built this keep, collected rare and one-of-a-kind books, and became as much a myth as a man, a faceless fear of what magic could truly do if removed from ethical concerns.
 
Footsteps drew him back from his reverie; he lit the small flame below the cauldron and added two golden spoonfuls from the ampere of morning glory oil, switching to a rowan spoon to stir it together.  Bending over the brazier, he knew how he looked, dark hair pulled back and silvery mask obscuring his face, body covered in all black clothes, hands hidden in their gloves. Beyond the flickering fire, only four candles were burning on each corner of the table, throwing shadows across the room. Setting the stage, he’d learn, was as important as the product itself. 
 
“It’s about time …” 
 
He raised a hand and the visitor’s complaint cut short. Giving the mixture three more stirs -- one clockwise and two counterclockwise -- he put the spoon on the marble resting place before he replied. 
 
“Do you have it?” 
 
“Yes.” There was a breathless quality to the visitor’s voice, and he wondered if they were having second thoughts or if they were gaining pleasure from the act of betrayal. “It wasn’t easy, not in this amount. I had to …” 
 
This time he turned as he raised his hand; the visitor abruptly stopped. 
 
“Show me.” 
 
The visitor pulled a stoppered vial from his pocket and started to step forward. 
 
“No,” he ordered. “Give it to my servant.” 
 
The visitor frowned but held it out; he gasped when he saw Piotyr’s hand, the shrunken fingers and claw-like nails. Carrying the brown bottle to the doorway, Piotyr very carefully reached inside and placed it on  a little table as red sparks danced around his skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the air; when he pulled back, his hand was smoking, little globules of flesh dripping to the ground. 
 
“Gods’ blood,” the visitor murmured. 
 
He ignored the startled glance and judgment in the visitor’s eyes as he crossed to pick up the vial. Pulling the stopper free, he sniffed then tipped it up, a tiny red droplet soaking into the leather of his glove.  
 
“You wish it done immediately?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. The visitor braving snow covered roads made it obvious.  
 
“Yes.” Surety was back now that the method of destruction had been passed out of their hands. “I’ve brought the money.” 
 
Coins clinked in the pouch as it passed to Piotyr, platinum discs worth more than some countries. He didn’t need it but he enjoyed the look of consternation when he named a figure just out of an especially smug applicant’s reach. What he was more interested in was the other part of the deal. 
 
“And you are still willing to be beholden to me?” 
 
Sometimes people balked, even at this late stage, uncomfortable with the uncertainty of an unnamed boon. One request, at some point in their lifetime, no questions asked, no option but to comply. It could be information or rare items or even a life of a child of their own. Payable upon demand. Others thought they were clever enough to wiggle out of it when the moment came; they weren’t but they still tried. 
 
“Yes, yes. Anything you want, one time offer. I know.” Impatience echoed in the words, anticipation at being so close to their goal. “I wish to watch, to make sure I’m getting what I paid for.” 
 
He tilted his head and stared, knowing the mask was unnerving. 
 
“There will be little to see,. Once the spell is sent, you will leave.” 
 
“But it’s dark!” the visitor protested. “The roads are treacherous …” 
 
“They are,” he agreed as he turned back to his table, giving not another thought to the man who’d sold his soul so easily. 
 
Tugging off the glove, he replaced it with another from the drawer in the far cabinet, tossing the stained one where it could be seen from the doorway. The vial he held over the now simmering liquid; he needed only three drops of the vicious red to pull apart its strands and merge them with the powerful toxins. Once tied together, the blood would serve as a roadmap for the spell, directing the deadly infection to the intended victims. Four stirs, alternating directions, and the mist formed, rising up from the cauldron and beginning to disperse. It crawled over him then spun about the room, questing tendrils looking for a match. When it touched the soiled glove, the spot of blood began to smoke, eating through the leather and leaving gummy ash in its place. 
 
“Lêgerrîn,” he murmured, “Dul. Nájsť” 
 
It gathered itself and began to whirl, wind speed rising. Then it blew outward, through the door and the windows. The visitor jumped as it washed over him; Piotyr stood still, awaiting instructions. As it expanded, he could feel it, the pull of the blood, south and east, drawing the magic towards those who didn’t know that death rode for them tonight. 
 
“Show our guest out,” he said, capping the cauldron and lowering the flame. “It is done.” 
  
“He promised … to be here … no matter … what,” Maria ground out between clenched teeth. “If he … doesn’t … I’m …” 
 
Heavily pregnant, Maria stopped walking as another contraction made her stomach ripple. One hand on the small of her back, she tried to stretch but could only gasp loudly as her muscles moved the baby lower.
 
“Remember to breathe,” Philomena said, taking the pressure as Maria clenched her forearm, holding on tightly. “Even you can’t stop Kemblefyrd creek from overflowing after three days of heavy rain and that damn culvert failing. You know that Jasper will be here as soon as he can.” 
 
“I know he is never … laying … a hand on me … again.” Maria stopped to lean against the bedpost, her loose hair hanging over her shoulders as the pain eased for the moment.  “I’m not going to do this again, Phil.” 
 
“Everyone says that on their first baby,” Ororo said from where she was mixing fragrant smelling herbs and smooth oil. A hint of ginger, soft chamomile, and a touch of lavender already filled the room with a soothing scent. The best midwife in Coulfell, she was the calmest in the room, unfazed by Maria’s first baby jitters, assuring them all was well. “The pull of blood makes you forget the pain.” 
 
“And keeps you in business.” Maria was sweating, her skin glistening with an inner glow. She managed a smile. “How many kids does Fredricka Mackensie have? Twelve? And they say women are the weaker sex.” 
 
“Alphonse has ten brothers and sisters,” Phil answered. “But there were a few who died young, so more than that.”
 
Phil poured some water from the nearby ewer in a bowl and dipped a towel in, soaking it before wringing it out. Gathering up Maria’s hair, she wiped the back of her neck with soft cooling strokes. Ororo had talked her through ways to ease the birthing process back when Maria had declared she wanted her friend present even if it meant fighting the church and going against the healer’s recommendations. Fortunately, Jasper, her husband, agreed with her. A progressive thinker, he’d put his foot down, going so far as to dismiss Sit Well’s keep cleric in residence when he called a birthing chair a witch’s throne. Phil was all too aware of old-fashioned ideas that lingered in the naves of churches and halls of power; the color of Ororo’s skin and Phil’s gender were still used to judge and find them wanting. 
 
As the oldest daughter of the Lord of Coulfell, Philomena had grown up with more than her fair share of slurs and outright hatred. When her mother had died giving birth to her sister, a babe who had only lived three days, Phil was left as the sole heir to one of the most powerful kingdoms in the empire. For six years, she was raised to be the next ruler. and her father didn’t hesitate to train her the same as he would a son. Sword-play, archery, hand-to-hand lessons took place between tutoring on history, politics, and court etiquette. He took her with him when he rode the countryside and let her play with toys in the room during council meetings.  
 
Then one day he met a beautiful woman from the Isles of Kelawahi; Phil had wanted to dislike her, had been a terrible brat during the courtship, but it was hard to not to like Kicho with her sunny disposition and heart full of caring. By the wedding, Kicho was pregnant and, as the years passed, her brothers were born. Strong and loyal William, intelligent and bookish Christophe, and the twins, Robertine and Edwan, rambunctious and absolutely devoted to their big sister. Each time Kicho had another child, Phil had fretted, worried about complications and babies with defects that couldn’t survive. But Kicho had brought a midwife with her, an older woman with the darkest skin Phil had ever seen, and she, along with her apprentice Ororo, assuaged Phil’s fears, teaching her  the old ways of easing the pain and ensuring mother and child survived . 
 
“Oh.” Maria straightened up, eyes widening. “This one is … I feel … I think I need to  …  ooooh.” 
 
“Sit for a moment. Let me check the progress.” Ororo crossed the room as Maria perched on the edge of the bed.

With only the three of them and Ororo’s acolyte in the room, there was no need to worry about covering up; Ororo dropped to the floor and rucked up Maria’s gown. After a moment, she tilted her head up and smiled. “The babe is close; let’s get you on the chair and we’ll be ready to push.” 
 
“But … Jasper ..” Maria argued as they helped her stand and take the few wobbling steps to where the birthing chair sat, surrounded by pots of oils and water and herbal mixtures, sharp scissors, piles of cloth, and the rest of Ororo’s kit. 
 
“The babe comes when the babe comes,” Phil repeated the mantra she’d heard both Ororo and her mentor say many times. “Besides, if he misses it, you can hold it over his head for the rest of your life.” 
 
Maria laughed as she settled into the seat; Phil tied back her hair then knotted her gown at her waist.  “I do want … a new … training … facility …"  
 
“There you go,” Phil took up her spot on Maria’s left, holding her hand and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “And if this is a girl, you can teach her sword work yourself.” 
 
“Yes … I  …” 
 
Maria groaned as a contraction shook her frame. 
 
“On the next one,” Ororo told her. “Push as hard as you can and make as much noise as you want.” 
 
“I’m not going to … oh, oh, oh.”  Maria shuddered as she focused intensely, hunching her shoulders. 
 
“Good, just like that,” Ororo said. “Three or four more and the head should crown.” 
 
“Going … to … kill … him …”  Maria bit her lip on the next one; Phil used a cloth to wipe away the blood in the moments between contractions.

The door burst open and Jasper stormed in, still in his traveling cloak; he stopped only long enough to kick out of his muddy boots and toss the cloak to Ororo’s young helper before he slammed it shut and started to rush over to Maria. 
 
“Clean yourself.” Ororo’s voice brooked no argument. “Pakete, water and soap for Lord Sitwell and keep the mess confined.” 
 
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl bobbed her head, taking a basin and ewer and drawing Jasper to the side. As he washed his hands and face, his eyes never left his wife. 
 
“Did the … mill … flood?.” Maria said between short sharp breaths. “The … storehouse?” 
 
“The retaining wall idea worked.” Jasper let Pakete take his jacket; he rolled up his linen sleeves and crossed to her side. “Leo is brilliant, just like you said.” 
 
“Smartest mind in … “ She gasped. 
 
“This might be it,” Ororo said. “Phil, Jasper, hold her legs.” 
 
Pressing forward, Phil switched her hold to under Maria’s thigh, helping her crunch her midsection. The groan grew louder. 
 
“Let it out,” Phil whispered. “No one here cares if you scream.” 
 
“I like it when you scream,” Jasper added as he took his place on Maria’s right. 
 
“You … are … such …  an … ass.” The contraction passed and Maria dragged in air, preparing for the next. 
 
“But I’m your ass,” Jasper assured her. 
 
“The babe has a shock of dark hair,” Ororo told them. 
 
“Your hair,” Jasper murmured. “Imagine a girl with brown eyes and brown hair.”
 
“Don’t know yet if it’s …”  
 
This time Maria shouted, her legs shaking with the effort as Ororo worked, easing the widest part of the head through the opening. As soon as it was free, the rest of the body followed, covered in bloody streaks and white mucus. Cradling the child, Ororo cleaned out the nose and opened the mouth; it drew its first breaths, a series of little gasps, and then let out a wail loud enough to be heard all the way to Coulfell Castle.
 
“That’s certainly our child,” Maria said, leaning against Jasper watching Ororo clean the babe. Phil was smiling so wide her cheeks hurt as Ororo put the child into Maria’s arms. 
 
“Congratulations, you have a son,” Ororo said. 
 
“A son.” Jasper’s eyes were filled with wonder. “Oh, Ria, he’s perfect.” 
 
Taking a step back, Phil left the new parents to their moment; there was still much to be done. Ororo tied off the umbilical cord; Phil picked up the small vial already blessed and waiting. As the cord was cut, she caught the blood, careful to not let a drop of the precious liquid  hit the floor.  Stoppering it, she sat it aside and took the embroidered cloth from Pakete, clean and sterile and prepared for the afterbirth. She knelt down, positioning it to catch the placenta and watched as drops of blood stained the white. 
 
“She’ll need a few stitches,” Ororo called to the girl. “Heat the needle and measure out the thread.”
 
A few pushes and the afterbirth was expelled; Phil wrapped it securely, crossing the ends as the ritual required, and making the runic symbols line up correctly. They’d bury it in the chosen spot soon, an offering to the gods, blood and nutrients to thank them for the gift of new life. 
 
“What’s that?” Pakete asked. She pointed at an upper window that was open to let in the fresh air. 
 
Pouring through the window was a grey mist that moved as if blown by sharp winds; it descended quickly and began spreading through the room. 
 
“The babe.” Phil’s first thought was for the newborn, followed closely by her friend. “Maria.” 
 
Ororo grabbed her leather satchel, digging through it until she came up with a blue cloth that she tossed over the baby and mother. “The lavender.” 
 
Pakete understood; grabbing the bowl with the ground mixture, she threw it in the air over Maria and the babe just as the mist enveloped Jasper. 
 
“What the …” He shivered. “That feels … cold?” 
 
As fast as it surrounded him, it moved on to Ororo then passed over her and Maria without an effect. When it turned to Phil, it began to swirl, eddying around her feet and rising up her legs. It was clammy, like a sea fog, and smelled faintly like flowers. It crawled over her until it reached her hands that still held the placenta; as soon as it touched the bloody cloth, it recoiled and drained away, flying to Pakete and wrapping her from head to toe. The girl’s eyes widened and she began to convulse. Skin grew ashen then took on a blue tinge. Her eyes bulged and she struggled to breathe, fingers scrabbling at her windpipe. Froth appeared at the corners of her mouth and she dropped to the floor, jolting as if her muscles were tightening and bones bending the wrong way. 
 
Ororo dumped her satchel, frantically searching through her kit but there was no time. Pakete’s head tilted back as she took one last agonizing attempt to get some air in her lungs and then she stilled, eyes open and staring sightlessly at the ceiling. 
 
“What the hell was that?” Jasper asked. 
 
“Dark blood magic,” Ororo answered. “The darkest I’ve ever seen.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Theoden : Dark have been my dreams of late.

Gandalf : Your fingers would remember their old strength better... if they grasped your sword.

J.R.R. Tolkien,

The Two Towers

“... wants to gain a foothold in the kingdom,” Lord Kenson May was arguing. “Coulfell has always stayed separate and this would put us squarely in the Emperor’s camp.” 
 
“Any aid the Emperor sends will have strings attached; you know how he is,” Lady Winifred Hand said. “Our goal should be to keep one of our own on the throne; there are ways to ensure the lineage.” 
 
“The number one problem is those movements near the Aperian border,” Lord Alstair Fitz added. “Lady Viperia has always wanted the upper lakes and will try to take advantage of our weakness, mark my words. What we need is a contingent of Imperial guard; that would bolster our defenses until the issues with the throne settle down.” 
 
Philomena stood at the casements, her eyes drawn through the glass to where the smithy lay below, a steady stream of black smoke billowing from the chimney. Household staff moved across the tamped earth, fulfilling their daily duties; each had a black ribbon tied around their arm, a sign of the mourning that still gripped the kingdom. Her finger absently brushed against the grosgrain material of her own clothing, the deep black unbroken by any color on her pants, shirt, vest and jacket. The ennui welled up at the edges of her thoughts, a depression so vast that if she fell in she might never come back out. 
 
“Well, I for one will never accept that good-for-nothing nephew of Wunagan’s as King,” Lord Harald Simmons spat out. “He’s a wastrel and blaggard. Whatever we do, he can’t take the throne. Even having him as a consort is an affront; it’s too bad that he’s the only heir in the Imperial direct line. All those blood feud deaths have left the succession in serious disarray. Someone’s going to take advantage of that …”
 
“Ultimately, this is for the Queen to decide,” Alphonse MacKensie injected, cutting off Harald before he could fall into the rut of his favorite argument. Mack had come in his father Louis’ place, and Phil was glad to have a friendly face. The others were her father’s age and had been his council. Should still be but now, by default, they were hers.  “Perhaps we should ask her.”
 
“Of course,” said Kenson. “But it’s our job to advise her and I agree with Harald. Garrett’s debts are high and his penchant for the dice is well-known.” 
 
Phil had heard enough; they were circling back around to their original points and she knew they would keep arguing long after there was anything to be gained. Her father always said he could predict exactly what position each would take before they opened their mouths; meetings were mostly to allow them to be heard and make them feel they’d contributed to the outcome. 
 
“I agree with your concerns about John Garrett which is why I’ve suggested a moon fasting instead of a blood marriage.” She watched their reactions as she spoke. Surprise, confusion, and a hint of frustration crossed their faces, all but Mack who had already known of her decision. “A month of isolation and three more here in the palace. Garrett will have no titles, rank, or any privileges of the kingdom; he will have no place in line to the Coulfell throne, will still be the heir for the Imperial one, but cannot make any claims for himself. There’s a small bequest in the event he ends the arrangement, but hardly enough to make a dent in his mountain of debt. The Emperor will pay his expenses and enter into a contract to wipe out what Garrett owes if he abides by the letter of the agreement.” 
 
“I doubt Wunagan will go for that,” Alstair said. “He has wanted an Eastern stronghold for years; without a marriage, he’ll have no foothold.” 
 
“Unless there’s a child. An heir would merit a permanent Imperial guard.” Harald rubbed his beard and raised an eyebrow. “Very clever, my dear, clever indeed. The Emperor can hardly reject the same deal he had with his first wife now can he?” 
 
“Mathelda? Aye, I’d forgotten that,” Kenson said. “They could barely stand the sight of each other. Damn glad we weren’t saddled with that milksop as Empress.” 
 
“Aye, she ran home fast enough after giving birth, all too glad to leave her son behind.” Winifred wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I don’t think she’s been out of the Western Lands since then. Too bad the boy was killed; he seemed biddable enough. If the Emperor could have stopped his family from offing each other, there wouldn’t be so much uncertainty.” 
 
“Moon fasting is out-of-favor; the Archbishop has spoken against it,” Alstair reminded them. 
 
“You’re right about time being short,” Phil told him. “The Lord of Whitehall is visiting King Tarleton early next week. Our enemies are restless; we must show our strength now.” 
 
“Tarleton’s champing at the bit for another war, and Whitehall’s a damn zealot.” Harald shook his head. “We have to make an announcement sooner rather than later. The Church can just get onboard.” 
 
“The plans have all been made. Garrett arrives in two days.” Phil got some satisfaction from their reactions; they had best learn not to underestimate her resolve to protect her kingdom. “The contracts are ready and need only our signatures. Melinda?” She raised her voice and the door opened. A dark-haired woman appeared, a sheaf of papers in her hands; she crossed the floor and handed them to Phil. 
 
“Here are the copies, Your Majesty.” 
 
“Thank you, Mel.” She nodded to her friend turned aide-de-camp. “You can hand them out to everyone.” 
 
“Melinda? You knew of this?” Kenson asked. “Your mother will be proud of you! We had no idea.” 
 
“She taught me the value of a confidence, father.” Melinda smiled. “And to not trust anyone.” 
 
“That’s my girl.” He beamed with pride. 
 
“The envoy arriving with Garrett will have the authority to make changes to the small strokes and details. Meanwhile, we’ll hold a ceremony, a small and very sober affair as befits the fact the country is in mourning, but public enough for the word to spread.”. 
 
“Imperial guards are coming with him?” Harald’s eyes were scanning the document. 
 
“A small contingent to be followed by a larger troop. The Captain wants to inspect the border before the number is settled upon,” she explained. 
 
“And be seen doing so,” Mack added. “That’s smart.” 
 
“Melinda will be my voice on the council during the isolation month; she already has preparations at the lodge underway.” She inclined her head in agreement. “I would have all of you read the contract closely; we shall reconvene to hash out any revisions.” 
 
“Your majesty.” Winifred  stopped her as she started to leave. “Philomena. If you don’t want to do this, we’ll find another way. You did your duty when you married that son of Ward’s Watch when you were younger; you need not do this.” 
 
“I appreciate the sentiment, Winifred, but the kingdom’s welfare comes first.” Her father’s voice echoed in those words and, for a moment, she felt the tightening of her chest, but she pushed the grief away. “After living with Grant for a year, I can definitely manage a wastrel like Garrett for a few weeks.”
 
“I’m sure you can,” Kenson said. “Just know that, if the moon fasting ends, with or without an heir, we will support whatever you decide to do. Your father prepared you well, Phil, and you are going to be a good queen.” 
 
She looked around at the familiar faces, the ones who’d seen her grown up and the ones who were her friends, as they nodded in support of Lord May’s words. They each had their own agendas but they had always put Coulfell first, and she hoped they continued. 
 
“That went as well as could be expected.” Melinda waited until they were in the hallway before speaking. Phil was very aware of how lucky she was to have friends like Melinda and Maria and Jasper and Mack. Without them, she’d be even more unmoored than she was. 
 
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” she replied. That was another of her father’s aphorisms. She used to roll her eyes when he repeated the trite phrases, but she’d give anything for him to be waiting around the next corner, saying the blandest of proverbs. “Or, as Dwan would have put it, do it and deal with it later.” 
 
Her throat tightened and her voice broke on the last words; sucking in a tremulous breath she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. It seemed, at times, like a bad dream, a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake. In a span of one night, so many had died; the mist that had killed Pakete had swept across the continent, seeking its intended victims. A rider had arrived within the hour with the news. Her father, felled in his office. Her brother William in his favorite tavern, drinking with his friends. Christophe, the scholar of the family, at university, studying for an exam he would never take. The twins, Robertine and Edwan, up to some mischief in the kitchen, gone in a heartbeat. Cousins, Aunts, Uncles … it had taken two weeks to get a full count of how many and make sense of the connections. Pakete, it turned out, was a by-blow of Phil’s first cousin, a slim young man who’d ridden off to war and never returned. 
 
Her immediate family was dead. Everyone but Philomena. 
 
The news she’d survived spread like wildfire and the rumors followed, springing up in those chaotic hours immediately afterwards. She’d been the one to cast the spell, one of the theories went, angry at being skipped over in the line of succession for her step-brothers. Another was that she must not be a Coulson at all, but she had blue eyes like her father and the Coulson nose, which put a lie to that. The most popular, however, was that whoever sent the spell had exempted her on purpose; either they wanted her on the throne or planned to force her into a marriage that would allow them to seize power. To many, the whole thing could be laid at the Emperor Wunagan’s feet and the years of assassinations and infighting that had decimated the royal court. It didn’t matter that the Coulsons held only a tiny percentage of Imperial blood or that there were others with much closer ties, people believed what they wanted to believe. 
 
Bishop Blake, however, had come to the conclusion that it was completely accidental. Phil had survived, he said, because at the very moment the mist touched her, she had been holding the cloth-wrapped placenta. The blood on her hands, the baby’s and Maria’s, had confused the spell. No one had ever heard of blood magic that could target so many in one family and the very real proof it existed had the Church in a frenzy to find out how it had been done. Blake had questioned her for hours, pulling every image and bit of information she could remember; his pronouncement of his findings sent many rushing to apothecaries and clerics for possible protection if such a spell came hunting them.  
 
She remembered little of those first few days, only bits and images. Maria making her hold the baby while Jasper sent messages. Antoine Triplett, head of the palace guards, arriving with a full contingent to take her home. Mack greeting them at the stables and Melinda taking her inside through the kitchen. Barely sleeping, wracked with nightmares when she did. Refusing potions and salves and spells to help her cope. Disjointed meetings with the council and the Bishop. Planning and questions and funerals. So many funerals. All the pomp and circumstance and expectations, details and protocols. Phil would never have made it through those dark weeks without Melinda’s organization and Mack running interference. Even Felix, the Bishop’s son, took over handling the ceremonies, using his cleric training to write the eulogy. Some had been unhappy with the one service, but five different ones would have sapped Phil’s blood. 
 
“I’ve moved the meeting with the City Chancellor to the small stained glass room,” Melinda told her as they started down the stairs. “She has ideas about coordination with the town constables.” 
 
“I’m sure Trip loved to hear that; he’s only been after her to sit down and talk with him for years.”  She nodded to the two guards stationed at the bottom of the flight; more than usual dotted the hallways of the palace, a compromise she’d made to show their strength to those who might take advantage of the situation. “Must be hard for her; she’s been a key figure arguing for the separation.”
 
“Oh, she’s still mouthing her distrust of nobility; she’s promising to push the town agenda and use this to gain control of the aqueduct gates.” Melinda rolled her eyes. “Even though we all know that’s not going to happen.” 
 
They crossed through the small dining room; Phil snagged a meat roll from the table laid out for afternoon lite fare. She’d missed lunch to work on the contract details and prepare for the meeting. Melinda picked up three, passing Phil another as soon as she finished the first. 
 
“I almost want to give them the responsibility and watch them make a mess of it. The farm contingent would be pounding on her door the first time she diverted water away from the river and to the fountains. If I wouldn’t have to clean up after, I’d let her experience what dealing with Martine Defrene is like.” 
 
“It would be entertaining,” Melinda agreed, handing over the last roll as she munched on her own. “Can we do the same with the merchant’s guild? I’d give them two weeks of overseeing the stamping process before the business owners revolt.” 
 
Phil’s chuckle was half-hearted; she knew what Mel was doing, trying to distract her from where she was going. Whether she believed in the Church’s teachings or not, others did and expected her to follow the rituals. The mourning watch came from ancient times when robbers would desecrate bodies; the old myth of royal blood being more powerful was, unfortunately, still widely held. Never mind that the family plot was inside the palace walls and under twenty-four hour guard, she had to spend an hour a day, repeating ancient prayers. For the first week, an audience had gathered, joining her in the old forms. By the end of the second, only a hardy few showed up. At the end of the fifth, it was only her and the guards standing silent watch. 
 
“I’ll have a whiskey waiting when you get back,” Melinda promised as she left her at the back door, off to do another task on her long list, handing her off to the quartet of armed guards. As much as she disliked being surrounded by swords and armor every time she went outside, she understood the danger. They couldn’t protect her from another spell, but an assassin’s blade was a different story. So she held her tongue and let them walk her across the courtyard and through the back gardens to her destination. 
 
Past the apothecary and down the hill, the mausoleum was part of the original buildings on the castle grounds; it began as a small barrow, blue-grey stone of the lintel mined from the nearby hills. The first Lord of Coulfell was buried there along with his three wives and five children; as generations passed, the space was expanded, new rooms created as old ones were closed off. Like a history of the kingdom, they grew larger, more elaborate as the family’s power ascended. The biggest was nestled into a rise of ground, granite columns flanking the wide entrance. Inside, the walls were adorned with artwork, chiseled scenes and busts of those whose blood had flowed out one final time. The heels of her boots clicked on the slate as she strode past her grandparents’ corner; she glanced at the fresh flowers in the urn on grandmother's vault, a splash of color against the cold wash of stone. 
 
Lady Ovfelia had been a woman of strong morals and inspired diplomacy. She brokered peace treaties and raised one boy and two girls, all of whom ended up on a throne of a major kingdom. As a child, Phil hadn’t understood why so many were scared of the woman who had puttered in her private garden, raising orchids and lilies and beautiful blooms in the hot house, endlessly patient with all of Phil’s questions, uncaring of the dirt under her nails and on the knees of Phil’s pants. Only once did Phil cross her grandmother; she didn’t regret refusing the potion she’d given Phil on her wedding night to Grant Ward, a blood witch’s assurance of conception. When Phil returned a widow within the year, her bruises not yet fully healed, Ovfelia had already been ill, fever too far gone for even the strongest magic to heal. Phil made her peace and brought the first bouquet when she sat her watch on the new tomb; it had become tradition and now that Melinda had taken over the garden, there were always some blooms in the vase. 
 
The hallway split; Phil took the left, boxing around her great-grandparents before she came to her family’s room. In the middle of the floor were three tomb chests with effigies on top. The smaller one on the left was her step-mother Kicho; it was less than two years old, not yet weathered on the edges, the carved lines of her face still recognizable. On the right was her mother, the Lady Mariana, gone to blood eighteen years ago giving birth to what would have been Phil’s younger sister. The babe was interred with her mother, her small figure cradled to the effigy’s breast. 
 
But it was the large middle chest that made Phil’s heart contract. Stretched out, hands crossed, sword held tight in one and his personal scepter in the other, the stone likeness of her father was brand new, only completed four days ago. The side panels were still empty, awaiting Phil’s decision on what parts of the king’s life to depict. The council had suggested they would take care of it, but she’d refused; she wanted to show her father as he was, a man who loved his family and his country equally. 
 
She stopped at the foot of the tomb, kneeling and placing a hand on the carved plaque that bore his name, Orlando Orville Patrick Coulson. Tracing the letters, she repeated the ritual words. 
 
“From womb we come, in blood we’re born.

Over time we live, in blood our children grow.

To earth we go, in blood we die.”
 
The familiar refrain was supposed to calm and center her, but it wasn’t getting any easier, despite what the Bishop preached and the well-wishers assured. The pain was raw and real, a hole ripped in her chest that was still bleeding emotions. Time might pass, but part of her had died the night of the spell; she’d thought herself worldly, understanding the sacrifices and demands of her birth, knowing the losses of battle. But this, the brutal surprise and violent rending of the very fabric of her life … she could never have been prepared. 
 
For the first part of the hour, she stayed with her father, turning her mind to memories. The time he’d caught her in the larder, eating the warm cherry tarts Cook had made for a visiting dignitary, red stains on her face and hands and freshly pressed dress. The sound of his voice as he read bedtime stories of knights and daring deeds and princesses who rescued themselves. The look on his face when she’d agreed to marriage, pride for her acceptance of her duty mixed with regret that he’d had to ask. The echo of his laughter in the family quarters. The soft touch of his hand on her cheek. 
 
Tears flowed and she didn’t try to stop them. Here, she could be the lost and lonely daughter, not the new Queen. 
 
When she rose, her legs were cold from kneeling on the slab; she rubbed her hands on her thighs to warm them as she left the chamber for the newly created one next door where four tombs had been hastily assembled, smooth local slate for their sides and top, simple letters carved with her brothers’ names. There had been no plan for them, no place prepared, because they had decades to live and love and make their mark. Each should have had their own rooms with space for spouses and children and grandchildren, expanding the family line. But here they were, bodies trapped by earth while their souls followed their blood home. 
 
The tightness in her chest constricted, making it harder to breathe as the words swam in and out of focus. The twins were in front, Robertine Paul Andran Coulson and Edwan Silas Merias Coulson. Bertie had been excited about his seat in the Royal Academe, already packing for the upcoming term of the Collegium. Dwan had turned down his legacy entrance in favor of an apprenticeship with the Artificer Guild, a spot he’d earned on his own skill. Such a contradiction, the two of them, identical in looks but worlds apart in interests, Bertie, as likely a sword in his hand as a book, and Dwan, grease under his nails. Just turned 16, they were still boys in so many ways, always competing with each other or banding together to cause trouble. Running hellbent down hallways and hiding in closets to raise a scare, they’d only started outgrowing their impulses and were beginning to hint at the men they would have become. It hurt to think of them in past tense. So full of life and joy and laughter, Phil smiled in spite of the pain, remembering them swimming in the river, swinging so high up on the rope before letting go to splash into the cold waters.
 
Her hands were shaking as she traced each of their names, tears flowing from her already reddened eyes. The words grated over the shattered pieces of her heart as she prayed, her only solace that they were with her father and their mother now, blood rejoined with blood. Whatever the church might teach, she firmly believed that the gods would not be so capricious as to judge them on the way they’d died. Bishop Blake had only once dared broach the taint of dark magic; between Phil and Melinda’s glares, he had backed off quickly and never brought it up again. His might be the dominant interpretation of the old texts, but it was far from the only one. The Bishop before Blake had a wider view of good and evil, focused on acceptance of all; he’d married her parents and taught her tenet classes when she was young. 
 
A scuff of a shoe on stone brought her back from her reverie; the guards had moved into the room with her, one in each corner. She nodded to the closest as she circled to the other two stone chests, the final resting places for the older of her brothers, William and Christophe. William Diego Thomas, who would have become king; already, Will had been taking on responsibilities, learning to be a ruler by working with their father. Stalwart, that was Will, steady and trustworthy. He’d been a quiet child who’d thought through every decision, who had followed Phil around the castle as soon as he could toddle, wanting to be wherever she was. But oh how he’d love a good mug of beer or glass of spirits with his friends, opening up to those he kept close. Christophe Martin Liam had come out of the womb with a book clutched in his fist, they’d joked; he loved stories of all kinds, ballads and songs, anything that he could learn from. He had a beautiful tenor voice and always performed at the midwinter concert; he’d planned to be a professor, make a life as an academic at the Collegium. 
 
The room too small for all for chests to sit in line, Will and Tophe were behind the twins, facing the opposite doorway. One day the wall would hold carvings and insets for statutes, but for now it was bare, mortar still bright between the stones. She dragged her fingers along the cool smoothed surface, her mind caught in memories as she paced the length of first one then another.
 
And came to a stop when she saw a pair of boots, well-worn and scuffed, folded down at the knees. Surprised, she stepped back and took a longer look. A wrinkled linen shirt and quilted leather vest buckled around the waist with a longsword in a soft scabbard. A half cape draped on one broad shoulder, a quiver of arrows and a bow across the other. The dust of travel weighed heavy on the man; his longish hair hung over his forehead in greasy hanks and dirt streaked his neck. 
 
Then he turned his head her way, the familiar blue grey eyes focused on her, and she gasped. 
 
“Clint?” 
 
“Phil.” 
 
His voice was huskier than she remembered; when he’d left, there’d still been signs of the boy in the curve of his cheek. But now he was a man with hard edges and toned muscles. A scar ran from his jaw to his left ear, faint and a few years old.  He’d barely been able to grow a goatee the last she’d seen him; now he had a full beard, rough and in need of a trim like his hair. 
 
Clinton Francis Barton Hand. She couldn’t seem to wrap her mind around his appearance. Clint had been taken in by Winifred, a distant relative, when he was just a little boy; a fixture in the palace, he and Willliam had been fast friends. Kicho had called him her other boy, and he’d been like family … until he’d suddenly decided to seek his fortune, leaving abruptly and disappearing into the Outer Isles. Why he’d gone was a bit of a mystery; most believed he had a falling out with Winifred, but Phil knew how much Lady Hand had loved Clint and how much Victoria viewed him as a little brother. As much as she had tried to find out, everyone remained tight lipped about the motivation, even her usually genial brothers. 
 
“I should have been here,” Clint said, and she realized he’d been crying, tears leaving tracks on his cheeks. “I came as soon as I heard. It didn’t seem real, not until …” He motioned towards the nameplate. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I had this plan to show up right before his coronation with a bottle of rum and get him and Tophe drunk just like old times …”
 
“He would have liked that.” She smiled at the memory of how Clint had always been able to get Will to open up and enjoy himself. “Bertie and Dwan would have badgered you about what you’d brought them.” 
 
“By the blood, Phil, it’s not right.” A flash of anger colored his eyes, a steely determination that was new in the set of his jaw. “When you find out who did this, I’ll gladly kill them for you.” 
 
“You’ll have to get in line.” She’d promised to do the deed herself. “Behind me and Melinda.”
 
“We’d just pulled into Beaman’s Cay when I heard; there’d been two sailors on another ship -- brothers, your Aunt Juliana’s youngest kids, I think -- they had a blood mage onboard who contacted the Imperial Navy Command.” Clint shook his head. “I was too damn far away, Phil, and I’m so sorry.” 
 
“There’s nothing you could have done,” she assured him. “Bishop Blake says there’s no protection against magic that black. It was a fluke that I survived.”
 
“Thank the gods for that. I can’t imagine a world without Philomena Coulson in it.” Clint gave her a half-smile, enough for her to see the dimple in his cheek. “Whatever you need, I’m here for you.” 
 
“I …” A sob caught in her throat; she hadn’t realized how close the tears were, but Clint’s declaration was bringing them closer to the surface. 
 
“Bloody hell.” 
 
Clint was there, his arms around her, pulling her in close. She buried her nose in the crook of his neck and let herself have a moment to just be held. He smelled of sweat and dirt and something uniquely Clint that she hadn’t realized she’d been missing. For the longest time, she lost herself in the embrace, tears wetting the fabric of Clint’s cape. 
 
A guard cleared his throat then said, “Your Majesty.” 
 
She pulled back and immediately missed Clint’s warmth in the cold room. 
 
“I’m sorry, but it’s time,” the guard finished. 
 
“Thank you, Davis; I’ll be leaving shortly.” Phil turned to Clint. “I have meetings and duties and …” 
 
“I’m here to stay,” Clint promised her. “As long as you need me.” 
 
For the first time all day, Phil felt a lightening of her mood, a bit of sun peeping through the darkness. 
 
“Then come see Mel and Mack and Trip. I’m sure Winifred can spare you for an afternoon.” 
 
“Ah, I haven’t talked to her yet.” He slipped his arm through hers. “I stopped at the palace first, looking for you; Mel sent me this way. Aunt Winnie will understand. I hope.” 
 
“No need to worry; she’s probably still around, working through the contract provisions,” Phil said. “You can talk to her there.’

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I could not love thee (Dear) so much,

Lov’d I not Honour more.

“To Lucasta, Going to the Wars” Richard Lovelace

“What is that on your face?” was the first thing Mack said when he saw Clint. “A wooly caterpillar?”  He’d forgotten how warm Mack’s voice was; for such a big man, Mack was always gentle, even when making a joke. Hearing him again made Clint throw caution to the wind; he grabbed Mack and dragged him into a big hug. If he held on a few seconds longer than decorum dictated, he could be forgiven in the current situation.  “Some of us can grow more than that smattering of hair you’ve got,” he said when he’d let Mack go, referring to the well-trimmed facial hair Mack was sporting. The man looked good in his court robe over simple riding pants and linen shirt. Mack had always been the anchor to their group of cohorts, two years older than Clint and William.  “I’ll have you know this is all the rage at the Imperial capital.” Mack stroked the small goatee. “Anthony Stark started it. Before he disappeared.”  “Yeah, I heard about that. I can’t believe they let Stane take control of Starkridge; he had to have been in on the assassination attempt.”  He’d tried to keep up with news from home as he’d traveled, asking in every port and making a point to find others who hailed from the continent when they crossed paths. Finding his way in the world had been alternatively exciting and terrifying, but he’d never forgotten where his heart truly lay.  “You know how it is,” Melinda offered. “If you’re rich enough and have powerful friends, everyone turns a blind eye. The Archbishop himself presided over the coronation and Stane shut down any protests.”  She hadn’t changed either; her new position fit her perfectly. She and Phil had always been close, both of them quietly competent and taciturn in the face of a crisis. It had been Mel Clint had called when Christophe found himself accidentally engaged to a young woman he met in a tavern; Melinda had navigated the situation like an Imperial admiral, sending the girl’s family away believing they’d come out on the good end of the bargain. He was glad she had been with Phil through everything.  “The guard certainly didn’t like it. My cousin said Stane installed new officers and threatened them with charges if they didn’t follow orders,” Antoine Tripplet said. “But that’s old news. The real question is where have you been for the last four years and why did you slip away in the middle of the night without saying goodbye?”  Leave it to Trip to get right to the point; that he’d end up in the guard was a foregone conclusion, his family tradition of military service deep. As affable as he was, he could ask the hard questions and easily gained people’s trust.  “Wandered for a while, ended up in the Barrier towns, hired on a ship and sailed the Outer Isles,” Clint answered. “Wanted to make my own place in the world, you know? There wasn’t much for me to do here. Will was going to be king, Tophe was heading off to school, you were already rising in the ranks, Mack was following in his father’s footsteps, Victoria had her course set.”  “So you didn’t have a fight with Winifred?” Mack asked. “Felix heard there was a lot of yelling the night you left.”  “I told her I was going, and we had words, sure, but I’d already made up my mind. She gave me her blessing once she realized I was serious.”  It was the truth, or at least as much as he wanted to share.  “You left the fact that Phil was getting married to Lord Ward’s son out of your list.” Melinda crossed her hands over her chest and gave him a gimlet stare. “But I’m sure that had nothing to do with anything.”  “Grant was a little shit.” Clint didn’t bother to hide how he felt about the man. “And Christian’s even worse. No one deserves to be at that family’s mercy, much less Phil.”  Trip’s eyes widened at the vehemence behind the words.  “She brought an end to the conflict over the Lowerfells,” Mack reminded him. “Even after Grant’s death, his father still holds to the agreement.”  “Yeah, well, watching my friend marry a sadist didn’t sit well with me.” Clint could feel the embers of that anger flaring up and he couldn’t risk going down that road. “But that’s old blood spilled. I want to know what bastard cast that abomination of a spell and where do I find them?”  “Well, I see that personality trait hasn’t changed,” Melinda said. “The answer is we don’t know; It’s virtually impossible to trace the spell because of the nature of dispersal, and no one has claimed credit for it.” “The Bishop says it’s beyond anyone in the church, and all the blood mages we’ve consulted say it’s the blackest of magics, completely forbidden. Basically, they didn’t even imagine it was possible to do what it did,” Mack added.  “It’s not one of the usual suspects,” Trip continued. “A spell that powerful and unique would cost a small fortune, even if you could find someone to cast it.”  He’d forgotten how slowly the wheels of government moved; in the rim territories, decisions were made in the span of a heartbeat between life and death. Here, deliberation and thoroughness were the watch words. Winifred had often despaired of Clint ever learning to look before he leaped. That was one reason why Victoria was the most suited to take over the family; she was methodical and organized to Clint’s seemingly constant chaos.  “The Church couldn’t find answers if they painted themselves purple and danced in the carnival on Derara,” he said. “And just because something’s forbidden doesn’t mean someone didn’t do it.”  “Clint.” Melinda put a hand on his arm. “We’re worried too and doing everything we can to protect her. But we can’t strike at what we can’t see, and there are dangers we know we must prepare for.” As much as he wanted to see whoever sent that spell hurtling out into the world squirming at the end of one of his arrows, Clint had learned temperance the hard way over the last few years and could understand Melinda’s concerns. The late King Orlando -- and it hurt to think of him that way -- had been right when he’d said there was a time for action and a time for contemplation. Carrion birds would be circling the kingdom, looking for any chance to bite off part of the prosperous realm.  “The Aperian border.” He nodded as he ticked off the problem areas. “Whitehall’s poisonous manipulations. Tarleton’s so-called science of war. The Emperor’s drive to consolidate his power.”  “You really have been paying attention,” Mack said.  “Amazing what you can learn from pirates and scofflaws,” Clint agreed. “Got to understand the politics to avoid being entangled in them. So what’s Phil’s plan? I know she has one.”  “A moon fasting to the Emperor’s nephew.”  For two seconds, the words didn’t register and even when they did, Clint didn’t believe it. Hadn’t Phil been through enough? She’d married Grant now she was going to … “Garrett?” Clint’s hands balled in fists without conscious thought. “That no good blood bag? He’s in debt to the Hydrone Syndicate for at least two thousand and the Syballine family keep extending his loan through their bank. Rumor is he carries slaves for the Cartels so they’ll leave him alone.” “Slaves?” Trip’s face went grim. “We haven’t heard that. The money, yeah, he’s in deep, but the Emperor’s going to pay his debts if there’s an heir.” Roaring filled Clint’s ears at the thought of John Garrett putting his hands on Phil. It was like four years ago all over again when everyone had spoken so highly of Phil for doing her duty. She’d bring peace to the land, everyone repeated, but no one seemed to care that Grant was known to be a bully and a brute. One trip to a tavern in Ward’s Run and Clint heard numerous stories of bruised and battered women the youngest heir had thought to pay off with a handful of coins. But even when he’d told the King, Phil’s father had seemed sad but resigned; it was necessary, he’d assured Clint, and he had promised that Phil would be well-treated. As if that would matter once the ceremony was over.  Garrett, on the other hand, was a different kind of scum, but scum just the same. He was well known in the rim, hopping from one port to another, visiting brothels and gambling dens and running up big tabs in bars and taverns. Only the fact he was the Imperial heir kept the criminal elements who ran most of those establishments from cutting him off or, worse, killing him outright … and Garrett used that to his advantage. He played both sides off the middle, borrowing from one to pay another, selling out anyone around him for another drink or high or roll of the dice.  “He can’t be trusted. Phil has to know that,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “He’ll stab anyone in the back when he needs money.”  “Of that, we’re aware,” Melinda said. “He’ll be on a tight leash, I promise …”  A knock sounded on the door and then it opened; Lady Winifred Hand sailed into the room, her blue-lined cape fluttering behind her.  “Ah, Melinda, there you are. I need to ask you …”  Her eyes fell on Clint and the sentence was cut short.  “Clint?”  “Hello, Aunt Winnie.”  He braced himself for the stern look and lecture that he was sure would follow, but, to his surprise, she nearly threw herself at him and wrapped him tight in her embrace.  “Oh, my boy, it is so good that you’re back.”  Either she’d gotten shorter or he’d gotten taller -- most likely the latter -- because her head came up to his chin and he could bury his nose into her steely grey hair. She still smelled of lavender and vanilla, her favorite perfume, and her arms were strong as she pulled him close. If she sniffled once or twice and he had to blink his eyes to clear them, they both pretended not to notice when they finally parted.  “Let me look at you,” she demanded, hands on his arms, holding him as if she feared he’d run away.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trip give him a little salute as the other three left, quietly shutting the door behind them.  “You’ve grown taller. And what is this?” her manicured fingernails scratched at his beard. “At least it’s short; you know how I feel about those Bishop beards with their scraggly long ends.”  “Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t tell her that he carried her voice around in his head, extolling him on how to dress and tailor himself.  “You just got in.” She brushed some dust off his shoulder. “Came straight to the palace. I assume you wanted to see the Queen first, of course, but here I find you with those ragamuffin friends before you came to me.”  “Mel told me where Phil was.” He was having a hard time thinking of Phil as Queen. “I went down to the tombs to see her then Trip came to get her and … I was coming to you next.”  “Uh-huh.” She arched an eyebrow and Clint’s resolve melted.  “I wasn’t sure if you were still mad about me leaving. I thought, maybe, you wouldn’t …”  “You stop that right now, Clinton Francis. I will never turn you away, no matter what. I made you a promise. Even if you end up on trial for piracy, I’ll sit in the box with you.” Her dark eyes flashed. “You are my kindred son. We can disagree and still love one another.”  Exactly why Winifred had taken in the small orphan boy, Clint had never been sure. His mother was a distant cousin. When she’d died along with his father in a shipwreck, Winifred had given him a stable and consistent home where he had a room of his own and more food than he could eat. He was educated and trained just like Victoria, given all the privileges that the Hand name brought with it, but Winifred also set rules and boundaries, expected him to be respectful, and instilled in him a desire to help others. He was eternally grateful for all of that, even when he disagreed with her rather old-fashioned notions. “I’m sorry.” The apology tumbled out. “About the way I left, with those words between us. I had to go, it was the right decision, but I should have waited until I calmed down and said a proper goodbye. I just … I couldn’t stay. Not with everything happening.”  “I know.” She smoothed wrinkles out of his vest and tugged his shirt collar out from under his quiver strap. “Took a while, but what you were trying to say finally sunk in; Victoria sat me down, explained it to me. Then I was more upset at myself for not seeing what you were going through; selective blindness, Tori called it. For the part I played in driving you away, I’m sorry too.”  “It’s not your fault,” Clint told her. “It’s not really anybody’s fault; it just was what it was. And leaving was good for me; the distance, being on my own, the time away … I gained perspective on what I could and couldn’t have.”  “And you’re back now, so there’s that.” She patted her hands on his chest. “I’ll send word to Cook to make your favorite trout pie for dinner. Victoria should return by tomorrow; I’ve already messaged her to be back before the moon fasting ceremony …” She saw his flinch. “Oh, dear heart, you already know, don’t you? Well, come on, let’s go home and I can fill you in on all the details. It’s not the same situation at all, I promise.”  “Actually, I need to swing by the atrium,” he said as he followed her out of the room. “I traveled here with a friend.”  That statement completely distracted Winifred as Clint knew it would. She had always loved to host her children’s friends and Clint couldn’t wait to introduce his aunt to Natasha. The two women had the same inner strength even if they were opposite poles in outward personality. Winifred was the soft voice in the conversation, but she didn’t hesitate to speak the truth. Natasha was sharper, wielding the truth like a razor edged knife.  He’d met Natasha Romanova three weeks after he left Coulfell. He’d thought himself worldwise and, in many ways, he’d been better prepared for life outside the continent than some of the others he’d run into on his travels. He knew not to flash money, to wear simple clothes, and to take a job and learn various trades. He’d known how to hold his own in a sword fight and could shoot a fly off a yard arm across the bow of another ship. But nothing he’d ever known was like the degradation and depths of evil in others so openly on display the further he got from the Imperial boundaries. Traffickers didn’t take kindly when he’d tried to rescue some young ones bound for the sales floor of a notorious brothel; he’d been cornered in an alley by three thugs with cudgels, intent on making an example out of him.  That’s when she’d appeared, hair as red as blood, blades as quick as lightning, saving not only him but the children as well. Through a series of events and bad luck, they’d ended up on the run, Clint insisting he help her get the children somewhere safe. It wasn’t friendship at first sight -- Natasha made it perfectly clear she worked alone, but the next job she had lined up needed someone on a rooftop and then the one after that involved hanging upside down, and here they were, years later, as close as brother and sister could be, bound by blood spilled, not blood shared.  “It’s me,” Clint announced; it was always smart to let Natasha know who was on the other side of an opening door. “And I’ve brought someone for you to … Ah.”  He had the wherewithal to step aside and let Winifred inside the room that was filled with tension.  Natasha was sitting on a window ledge, flipping a knife oh so casually. Like Clint, she’d come straight from the road and was wearing simple leather pants, black boots, and a gray shirt. Her red hair was an intricate pattern of small braids that fed into a bigger one, tail hanging halfway down her back. How her skin stayed such porcelain perfection, Clint had never figured out; they were constantly outside and yet she never burned nor freckled. As soon as her green eyes fell upon him, she smirked, and he was certain he’d hear about whatever had happened later.  Standing by one of the planters filled with lush greenery, hands on her hips and shuttered look on her face was Phil. Still in all black, Phil’s clothes were the weeds of mourning, made of finer cloth. Closer in height to Clint, she wore her brown hair caught in delicate netting at the nape of her neck. Freckles dotted across her nose and cheeks, tiny brown dots that Clint knew came from summers swimming in the lake and days spent riding. He couldn’t help but notice earlier that she’d grown more voluptuous since he’d left, her curves more pronounced. She cut her eyes towards him and he felt the full weight of her regal stare.  Arrayed around them were four guardsmen, weapons drawn.  “I see you two have already met.” He put on his best ‘I’m no danger to anyone’ face and strolled into the middle of the confrontation. “I was going to introduce you but I ran into Aunt Winnie and we’ve been catching up.”  Natasha arched an eyebrow, waited a moment, then tucked her knife away. “You’re never on time, Barton. It’s one of your less endearing traits.”  “Aw now Tasha, you know I'll eventually get there.” He stood by her and turned his back to the window, facing the rest of the room. “Natasha, may I present my Aunt, Lady Winifred Hand, and the Queen of Coulfell, Philomena Margaret, daughter of Orlando. All, this is Natasha Romanova of Tambrov, my friend and traveling companion.”  “Your Grace.” Natasha nodded to Winifred first then turned to Phil, sketching a quick curtsy. “Your Majesty.”  He could hear the amusement in her voice, knew that quirk of lips -- she was enjoying herself.  “Romanova,” Phil responded, relaxing her stance and giving the signal for the guards to lower their weapons.  “Any relation to Tsar Pietre ski Roman? I met his family once when they were on a world tour, five … no six years ago.”  “Alas, no. My parents were fur merchants; they died in the last of the purges,” Natasha answered. “Oh, my dear!” Winifred took that as her cue to enter the conversation. “Such terrible upheaval that was. We had a number of families take refuge here while it was going on. You remember, Clint? Victoria was friends with the one girl, what was her name?” “Antonia.”  Clint remembered all too well the young woman whose father turned out to be selling girls into slavery for profit. A glance from Phil let him know she knew the name as well; the King had quietly arrested Dreykov then Antonia and her mother had left the city. Very few knew the real reason why, but Natasha did, because Clint had told her the story.  “Yes, such a shy girl. Victoria really took a shine to her,” Winifred said. “Which reminds me, the Simmons still have a cook from Novgorod;  he makes those delightful cherries and cream hand pies and that delicious beet soup. I  shall have to see if we can get some for Natasha while she’s staying with us.”  “I don’t want to impose,” Natasha tried to demur. “I’ll stay at an inn.” “Nonsense! You can have the garden room; I’ve redone it recently and it has its own garderobe,” Winifred insisted. “You’ll want to be close to Clint and I want to hear all about what he’s been up to while he’s been off finding himself.” “There’s no arguing with Lady Hand,” Phil spoke up. “She usually gets her way and she is the best host in the kingdom.”  “Then it’s settled,” Winifred said. “I’ll ride ahead in the carriage and prepare the household for your arrival. Dinner is at eight, as always; that will give us plenty of time to catch up.”  “We’ll be there Aunt Winnie,” Clint promised. He really did love the woman; he didn’t always see eye-to-eye with her, but she had a good heart.  “Your majesty.” Winifred dipped her head in respect. “The council is reconvening tomorrow to continue our work. We will have some suggestions ready later in the day.”  “Excellent,” Phil replied. “I look forward to hearing them.”   “I’ll get the horses saddled,” Natasha said as she followed Winnifred out of the room, giving Clint a look. The very epitome of subtlety, she could always make her meaning plain; she wanted him to stay and talk to Phil. “Meet me in the courtyard.”  “Well, she’s …” Phil paused, so obviously searching for a tactful way to describe Natasha Romanova.  “Strong-willed?” Clint offered. He could think of more crass ways to say it, but Phil had never been a fan of crude language. “Confident?”  “I was going to go with dangerous, but those fit too.” With a wave, she dismissed the guard, sending two out in the hallway, the others taking up residence flanking the door. “So she’s your …” “Partner,” Clint filled in when Phil hesitated. “She’s saved my life more times than I want to count. Also managed to teach me to think before I leap into things … which I do most of the time nowadays … and how to manage money better.”  “You mean you don’t spend every coin as soon as you have it?” Phil’s eyes crinkled as she smiled.  “I have a bank account and I’m even registered with two guilds,” he told her.  “That sounds suspiciously like being respectable,” Phil teased. “Are you sure you’re really Clint Barton? The boy who bought a scroll of height from a traveling tinker?”  “Will and Tophe wouldn’t shut up about me being short. If I’d have known I’d end up taller than them after that last growth spurt, I wouldn’t have bothered.”  Their laughter was tinged with loss, but it felt familiar, falling back into the easy relationship they’d always had. Phil had called him another brother, and he had spent so much of adolescence in the palace. He’d worried that his departure and the distance would change that.  “About tomorrow.”  He took a breath and dove into it, parsing his words to convey what he needed to say.  “I’d like to talk to you. At some point. About John Garrett.”  He saw her forehead wrinkle and her eyes begin to narrow.  “I have some information about him. He spends a lot of time on the rim and there are things you might need to know as you …”  He couldn’t say he wanted to stop the fasting because he knew how that argument would go over.  “... negotiate the contract with him …”  That was better; Phil liked knowing as much as possible to make contingency plans.  “... patterns of behavior …”  General assholery was what he really wanted to say  “... connections with certain unsavory types …”  The bastards he hung out with. “... and mountain of debts he owes,”  Just how easy it would be to buy and sell the man’s soul.  “So you can be prepared.”   He wanted to tell her that the ass should never lay a hand on her and shouldn’t have any opportunity to hurt her. That he couldn’t stand the thought of her having to sell her body for a kingdom and a people who took her for granted. More than anything, he wanted her to know she deserved to be happy. But it wasn’t his place to say those things. She’d made that clear four years ago when Will had tried to talk her out of marrying Grant. If her own brother couldn’t sway her, then what hope did Clint have?  Especially when he had his own selfish reasons.  “Mel keeps an hour free; tomorrow it’s in the morning, just before mid-matins,” Phil said. “If you can be here …” “I will,” he promised.  “Good.” She gave a sharp nod. “I’ll have the kitchen make some spiced tea. You can tell me everything.”  He truly wished he could, but there were secrets that he couldn’t give voice to, not now or ever. But he could promise her that, this time, he wasn’t going to run away. Phil needed him and he was staying, no matter how much it might hurt.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,

Like th' other foot, obliquely run;

Thy firmness makes my circle just,

And makes me end where I begun.

“A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning” 
John Donne

“So that’s her.” Natasha kicked her feet up on the stuffed ottoman. “I thought she’d be  …”  “Tasha.”  Clint practically sighed her name. She’d been on her best behavior, slipping into her nobility persona and charming Winifred all evening with her witty observations. Even the stories she’d told had been selected to maintain the image, perfectly funny, low-stakes, and with happy endings. Of course, she’d wait until he was ready to climb in his comfortable bed and try to get the first good sleep he’d had in far too many nights; as soon as she’d slipped through the balcony doors, he’d known the interrogation would start.  “... taller,” she finished. “Her situational awareness could use some brushing up; she was fully into the room before she saw me.”  “You’re practically invisible when you want to be,” Clint reminded her. “Did you enjoy suddenly appearing and giving them a fright?”  “One of the guards jumped, almost dropped his sword.” She chuckled. “Must be one of the recent hires; word is they’re beefing up the numbers for more coverage of the keep. Not that it will matter if someone launches another one of those spells.”  “There’s plenty of other dangers for a kingdom in turmoil.” Clint unbuttoned his vest and tossed it over the back of a chair. “Especially when three neighbors are itching to find a chink in the armor.”  “Thus the rushed agreement with the Imperial family.” Natasha always seemed to know everything. He still hadn’t figured out if her contacts truly were that good or if she only pretended to be ahead of the curve. “But Garrett will bring more problems than he solves.”  “I’m going to meet with Phil tomorrow, fill her in on all of Garrett’s baggage.” He sat down and pulled off his boots as he spoke. “Assuming you haven’t burned that bridge already, I was going to invite you along.”  “Our conversation was perfectly cordial. She seemed quite aware that I could have killed her three times over had that been my goal, but still managed to talk about the weather to fill the time. A regular guest wouldn’t have known she had three knives on her person.”  To Natasha, that was a glowing recommendation. “Phil’s strength is that she seems so normal,” Clint said as he wiggled his toes into the soft pile of the carpet; he’d missed little luxuries like that. “Trust me, she trained right alongside her brothers and knows how to protect herself.”  “She has a fighter’s posture,” Natasha agreed. “But the most interesting part was when you came into the room. The lovely Queen was not at all happy when she realized I was with you.”  “This terrible thing happens and then I show up out of the blue? Yeah, she’s right to be suspicious.” He stood and walked to the table to pour them both a glass of wine from the half-full carafe. “Anyone could be behind this. They have no way to trace the spell and no ideas about who cast it. Damn straight she should question everything.”  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She took her glass and sipped at the deep red liquid. “You and me. Arriving together. Introducing me to your aunt.”  “What? No,” He shook his head. “I said you were my friend. And even if we were, it wouldn’t matter. Phil’s more likely to be happy that I’m seeing someone; she was always playing matchmaker when we were younger.” Natasha didn’t respond, just took another sip. She could say more without speaking than anyone Clint knew.  “Look, I know you think you can read everybody …”  She continued to look straight at him.  “You’re wrong about this. Phil thinks of me as a little brother. That’s it.”  One long slow blink.  “Gods’ blood, you think I would have run half way across the world if I’d thought there was even a ghost of a chance?” He pushed up and started pacing back and forth. “With this moon fasting to Garrett, the last thing I need is you needling me. It’s going to be hard enough as it is.”  “I’m sorry, mischa.” She caught his wrist as he passed and pulled him towards her, scooting her feet over to make room on the ottoman. “You know I only want the best for you. If what you need is to protect her, then I will make it happen.”  “I just …” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It feels like I stepped back into the life of the old Clint Barton, the one who was a mess of emotion and anger, all tangled into a ball of stupidity. I’m not going to make the same mistakes again, damn it.”  “You’re not that person anymore, I promise.” She brushed her fingers over his knuckles. “Not that you were as bad as you make it sound; you were naive, yes, easily led by your dick, of course, but you were stubborn and creative and had so many possibilities. Playing the idiot is part of your charm, you know.”  “And you helped me weaponize it.” He caught her hand in his and squeezed. “But trust me on this, Philomena Coulson is my hopeless cause; I will move heaven and earth to keep her safe, and be happy with whatever relationship she deigns to give me.”  “I accept that you believe that.” She leaned over and laid a light kiss on his cheek. “We’ll drop it for tonight; we traveled long and hard to get here and we’re both tired. Tomorrow we’ll talk some sense to her about Garrett and go from there.”  He didn’t bother arguing the point; she’d agreed to let it go for the moment and that was the best he could hope for. Natasha would always have the last word. But after she’d gone and he lay on the too soft mattress, staring up at the midnight purple fabric that draped over his bed, silver stars sewn in patterns of the constellations, he replayed every word Phil had said, every twitch of emotion on her face, and fell asleep remembering the curve of her body against his, how perfectly she’d fit in his arms.   “There was something about her, something almost … familiar. I just can’t seem to put my finger on it.”  Phil paced the room, her skirts swirling about her heels. This afternoon’s meeting was with the Bishop and his council, and a fraught discussion about a royal moon fasting meant formality. It was going to be hard enough to talk them down to a simple contract rather than a complete marriage ceremony without offending any of the more hidebound priests.  “I’ve asked my contacts to see what they can find about Natasha Romanova,” Melinda said as she calmly laid out the plates that had come up from the kitchen just moments ago. The smell of fresh baked pastry filled the room and Phil’s stomach growled. She’d eaten her bowl of porridge and fruit before sunrise so she could get some practice time in with Trip. “Do you want me to contact the Spy Master? See what he knows?”  “Yes.” Phil snatched one of the small mushroom puffs and popped it in her mouth, chewing then swallowing quickly. “No. Maybe. I was startled, that’s mostly it. That Clint brought her into the castle and didn’t say anything about her.” She ate another then rearranged the platter so their absence wouldn’t be noticeable. “Not that he had any reason to tell me, and he has every right to have friends, I mean, it’s good to know he has someone to watch his back, I only thought …” She sighed then plopped down an overstuffed chair. “She’s beautiful, did I tell you that? Porcelain skin and red hair and looks like she could kill me with a shoelace. So many hidden weapons and tightly coiled lethality … huh, maybe that’s it. Not her specifically, but the way she held her body. Reminds me of something.”  “If it’s important, it will come to you.” Melinda held out a plate of little petit fours covered in a pastel lilac sugar glaze; she ate one in one bite, the almond taste perfectly balanced with the raspberry cream filling. “And yes, you’ve told me all about her. More than once. I might even say you’re a little obsessed with Clint’s female friend. In fact, the perfect word might be …”  “I am not jealous,” Phil objected. “Clint can live his life however he wants, be with whomever he wants.”  “And you can’t.” Leave it to Melinda to get right to the heart of the matter. “It’s okay to want things, Phil. Duty is important, but not at the cost of your happiness. It’s not too late to look at other options, maybe one that leaves you free to decide who to spend your life with.”  “We both know this has the highest chance of success; I’ll take Grandmother’s advice about potions to ensure conception and as soon as I’m with child, it’s over.” She’d thought about all the permeations; her marriage to Grant had taught her how to ensure a pregnancy didn’t happen. Now she needed to do the opposite. “I suspect the worst part will be dealing with him in an enclosed space for a month; I’ve never actually spoken to him, but, when I’ve seen him, he’s been self-centered.”  “My money’s on him getting bored within two days.” Melinda finished setting the table.  “The Grumpy Griffon’s not too far from the lodge,” Phil suggested. “He can ‘slip out’ for an evening or two; Trip will arrange a guard to watch …”  A knock sounded on the door and then Clint opened it, peeking around the doorframe.  “Good morning, Your Majesty,” he said. “Are you ready for us?”  Us. The plural didn’t escape Phil’s notice. Nor did it Melinda’s.  “Come in,” Melinda said, giving Phil time to stand and straighten her gown.  She needed the moment when she saw Clint enter the room. This morning, he was wearing a silk shirt that tied around his waist, a style from the Isles that left a vee of chest showing and fabric sliding over his muscular shoulders and arms. He’d shaved off his beard, jawline sharper and looking younger; his hair was clean, pulled back with a leather tie at the nape of his neck. With his tanned skin, he looked like the hero of one of those pirate romance novels that Kicho had loved, the ones with the rogue with the heart of gold who carries away the heroine into adventure. “Your majesty.” His blue-grey eyes sparkled as he bowed. “This is quite a spread you’ve laid out for us.”  “I mentioned your name to May Parker; seems you still have her wrapped around your finger,” Phil told him. May had been more than willing to serve up Clint’s favorites. From the first time he came to the castle, he’d turned those expressive eyes at her and she’d started feeding the skinny boy.  “I’ll be sure to drop by and say hello. How is Peter? He has to be, what,14 by now?” Clint asked.  “Just turned 15,” Phil answered. “He earned a position at Collegium; May is so proud of him.”  “He always was a smart kid,” Clint replied.  “Your Majesty.”  Phil’s attention was dragged away from Clint’s smile to find Natasha Romanova standing just behind him. Today she was in a very fashionable gown, an exquisite light brocade with a green and black swirling pattern. As she bowed, Phil saw black leather pants beneath the split skirt. Her hair was partially loose, the front tucked back with silver pins, the back a riot of curls. She wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Imperial court, would have commanded all the attention with her beauty and the intelligence that shone from emerald green eyes.  There was no way Phil could compete with her.  She knew she wasn’t a gem of first water -- the mavens and fascinators of the nobility had decreed her to be ‘pretty but not exceptional’ which, in the grand scheme of rankings and jockeying for position, meant she was neither in demand nor ostracized. Her dowry and family’s standing more than made up for her lack of looks, she was told. Kicho’s advice had been the best salve for her bruised ego; beauty, in the race for a throne, was a fickle asset that disappeared with age and invited obsession and possessiveness. Her marriage to Grant had taught her that; his lack of interest  was, in the end, a boon.  “I fear we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, and it was completely my fault,” Natasha said. “I was tired from our long journey and not at my best. Not an excuse, I know; you were quite measured in your response to my appearance in your home. I hope you allow me to make a better impression today; Clint has told me so many wonderful stories that I feel like we could easily be friends.”  It was an elegant statement, Phil would give her that. And how could she refuse when Clint was giving them both such hopeful looks?  “Of course.” Phil motioned to the chairs. “Please, sit, eat. There’s spiced tea and the cakes are particularly good.”  “It looks delicious,” Natasha replied. “Lady Hand set a lovely table last night and now this. Coulfell’s hospitality has been stellar.”  Everyone waited on Phil to sit first; she arranged her skirts as they made themselves comfortable. Mel tilted her head in question and Phil nodded; picking up the teapot, Mel began to pour the fragrant liquid into the delicate cups. She dropped a cube of sugar and added a dab of milk to Phil’s and passed it to her. For a second, her fingers traced the green swirls and light purple flowers on the rim of her mother’s family pattern.  “Oooh, mushroom puffs!” Clint took a plate and filled it with one thing from each platter before he passed it to Natasha. “Did I ever tell you about the time we got Leo Fitz to steal us a whole tray of puffs from a diplomatic reception? Kid was so trusting, all Will had to do was make up some story about a foreign princess and Fitz was in. Gods we ate so many, we got so sick.”  “When Kicho found you two under the table? Or was that the pepper and chorizo croquettes?” Phil asked, a smile rising unbidden at the memory. “The croquettes were the twins’ tenth birthday; we snuck into the kitchen before dinner started. Fitz and the puffs was the Telmurian delegation.” He wrinkled his nose as he thought. “Or maybe that was the time with the shrimp fritters.”  “I’d say I’m surprised, but I’ve seen you eat.” Natasha nibbled on a puff. “I had to talk that minor lordling out of throwing you in jail because of mangettos.”  “Fresh and at the peak of ripeness, Nat! No way he could eat all those before they went bad.” Clint grinned, unrepentant as always. “You’ve never lived, Phil, until you pick one straight from the tree and eat it in an afternoon rain. The ones you get here are just a shadow of what those taste like.”  “They were in his private garden; Clint stole them then gave most of them away to some street kids,” Natasha explained.  “Well, of course.” Clint didn’t bother with a fork, just popped the puff in his mouth, chewed, and then swallowed. “The kids told me the way over the wall.”  Phil laughed because that was so Clint, to care about those the world abandoned. “You’ll be happy to know that Leo made journeyman last year in the Artificers; he was accepted two years early and was at the top of his class. Bertie gave Dwan a hard time about being behind Leo, but Dwan was as happy as everyone when Leo sailed off.”  “Winifred said Jemma went to the Healing Collegium the same year and the two are still as thick as thieves.” Clint took his cup of tea from Melinda. “The most talented healer in a generation, she said, and everyone thinks Leo will be the Grand Artificer someday.”  “Alstair and Harald want the Bishop to formalize a marriage contract but Leo and Jemma keep refusing; he can’t fathom the idea of a man and woman being such close friends without romance entering the picture,” Melinda said as she handed a cup to Natasha.  “The Church is stuck in the past.” Clint shook his head; he had always been a skeptic, a point of contention between him and Winifred. “Their teachings are part of the reason so many head out to the rim where they’re free to live their lives the way they want.”  “Not all of that freedom is a good thing,” Natasha interjected. “Yes, laws for blood marriage are looser and it’s easier to make your fortune, but there’s also more gambling and drug dens, less enforcement of protective rules. Men with money like Lord Garrett can do just about anything they want.”  Phil didn’t blink at how smoothly the woman turned the conversation back to its original intent; she’d been about to do the same, ready to move on from the opening small talk. “You said you had information to offer?”   Clint wiped his fingers on a napkin after the petit four he’d finished. “I’m sure Mel has gathered enough for you to know about Garrett’s debts; he’s a terrible card player and rarely wins when he picks a horse.”  “He identifies with the long shots,” Melinda said. “And he can’t bluff worth a damn.”  “But it’s not just about money. If that’s all it was, a long-term losing streak and astronomical debt, the plan to have the Emperor pay it off would keep the worst of Garrett’s excesses in check,” Clint continued, the smile fading from his face as he got serious. “You have to understand the way things work in the Outer Isles. Men like Garrett who’ve grown up in obscene wealth, never wanted for anything, raised by nobility to believe they deserve their place in the world by virtue of blood -- they’re so privileged that they can’t see anything but their own desires no matter how cruel or unusual they are. They make their way further and further out, chasing whatever gets them high -- alcohol, drugs, gambling, sex, pain. And they find people more than willing to give them anything and everything, for the right price, of course. Syndicates who run brothels that are staffed with what they call ‘exotics’ and specializing in fetishes. Clubs where they can beat another person to death without repercussions … or hunt them for sport. Auctions where living beings are for sale of any age or ethnicity. Gambling halls that take blood as collateral for chips, Drug dens where couches are filled with skin-stretched skeletons still breathing but begging for another dose. So-called sacred spaces where they say blood can summon demons and devils. If a human can think of it, they’ll bottle it and sell it.”  She was glad her father had never hidden the dark side of humanity from her; that people partook in those kinds of things didn’t surprise her.  “You said he sold slaves,” Melinda asked.  “The families and cabals traffic in all kinds of payment. Imperial ships aren’t searched at port -- the whole sovereign land rule that lets them go where they want and not be subject to local laws -- so anything, or anyone, they transport wouldn’t appear on port manifests. All he has to do is bring some passengers onboard -- young, impressionable, want to see the world with this rich guy who is showing interest in them, maybe promise them a job -- and then introduce them to some ‘friends.’ Then he brings back some bricks of raw hash, ten or twenty or a whole hold full, and sails into his private slip where no one looks at his cargo or who comes to collect it. No coin changes hands; he’s doing it because if he doesn’t, he knows the consequences. The Syballine’s calling card is missing fingers and toes; the Wytones cut ounces of flesh as ‘payment’,” Clint explained.  “There will be Imperial guards watching his every move,” Phil said. “During and after isolation.”  “Ah, but that won’t stop the traffic in the most precious commodity -- leverage and information.” Clint leaned forward in his chair. “Who leaked King Donaldson’s affair? Why does the Exchequer pay the Hydrone Syndicate to ‘keep the peace’ in Madripoor? Garrett probably doesn’t even realize he’s giving away state secrets, thinks it’s just drunken pillow talk. Or he’s told in no uncertain terms that his option is to unlock a gate and walk away or be gelded.”  “They won’t kill him; why would they? He’s worth more to them alive and in debt.” Natasha sat her tea cup down. “They’re all around you. Dreykov was mixed up with them, and Christian Ward has a home on Ancheyles where he holds ‘parties’. Whitehall is very well-known in Karanthe.” DSomething about how Natasha pronounced the names, the slightest hint of an accent, brought the memory to the forefront. “You’re a Widow.” Phil could see it now, in the way she sat with her back so straight, the tensing of muscles that spoke of instant readiness to react. There was an exchanging of looks, Clint’s worried, Natasha’s unreadable. Melinda went on high alert, hand dropping to the hilt of her knife.  “I was,” Natasha said, “but I’m not now.”  As a testament to the change in Clint, he didn’t jump in, allowing the conversation to follow its course.  “I thought a Widow was for life,” Phil said. “The Red Room is mother, the Red Room is father.”  Green eyes widened; Phil had managed to surprise her.  “That’s what they teach, but it’s not true. Some fall out of the training, others, like me, decide to leave. It isn’t easy, but it can be done.” She paused as if debated within herself. “May I ask, how did you know?” “The King of Ward’s Watch employs a Widow. Melina is his personal bodyguard,” Phil answered. “She has the same accent as you,” “Melina?” Natasha asked. If Phil hadn’t been watching so closely, she might have missed the minute tremor in her hand.  “She arrived a few months before my marriage to the youngest Ward, Grant.” She’d wondered why her father-in-law felt the need for such protection, and it didn’t take long for her to discover how deeply rot had set in among the Ward’s court. “If Christian owes these syndicates, that would explain some potential threats.”  “Yes, it would indeed,” Natasha murmured around the lip of her cup as she sipped her tea.  “So Melinda’s not paranoid?” Phil asked, tabling the Widow question for now. Mel, she was certain, would keep a close eye on the situation. “Is that what you’re suggesting? That the people pulling Garrett’s strings could be behind the spell that killed my family?”  “I doubt it; there’s always rumors before a syndicate makes a big move and no one had heard even a whiff of anything happening,” Clint said,  “but they could have any number of other agendas. An unstable Coulfell or new Imperial heir shifts the balance of power.”  “Coulfell is centrally located, would open up a new route to smuggle drugs and illegal goods,” Natasha added. “Your coffers are deep enough to hide a large amount of dirty money to laundry.”  “You said it could be information.” Melinda tipped her head to the side.  “We can’t wall him off from everything.” Phil’s mind was racing with the implications. “He has to stay for a few months after the isolation period.”  “People will talk, we know that,” Melinda said. “The trick is to focus the gossip and flow of news where we want it. His unpopularity will help; we limit his personal retinue and control who works around him. But it’s mitigating the risks; he’ll be dragging baggage no matter what we do.”  There really wasn’t another option; they needed the Imperial guard and Phil needed the validation of her position as a new Queen. “We go into this with our eyes open and expect the worst.”  “And have eyes where he doesn’t expect it,” Clint said. “Nat and me, we’re good at ferreting out information. He won’t see us coming.”  She didn’t know if she was ready to trust this Natasha Romanova; there was a lot beneath the surface of the redheaded new friend of Clint. Assuming they were just friends … and she wasn’t sure of that.  But she was certain that Melinda could use a Widow’s talent at spycraft.  “You can coordinate with Mel,” Phil told him.  “Good.” A bright smile spread across his face and her heart gave a little jump in her chest. “We can …”  A knock sounded on the door; Melinda called for them to enter and Trip slipped into the room. He glanced at Clint then his eyes landed on Natasha and he drew himself up.  “Your majesty, if I may have a moment,” he said with a formal bow.  “It’s fine,” Phil said. “This is Clint’s friend Natasha Romanova. She’s going to be helping Melinda deal with Garrett.”  Trip looked at her again. “Well, any … friend … of Clint’s …” He nodded towards her. “Let’s hope she’s ready to get to work. Garrett’s just arrived; he’s got two sketchy looking thugs with him. Tried to sneak in through the North Gate; I’ve got men on them.”  “They’ll be syndicate or family enforcers; let me lay eyes on them and I might be able to tell you who they work for.” Clint started to stand, but Natasha caught his elbow and pulled him back down. “Right. Assuming your majesty will allow it?”  “Do it.” Phil waved them off. “Find out what he’s up to.” She watched them go, remaining seated until the door closed. “A Widow, Mel. He’s with a Widow.”  “Barton always did have the best sense of timing,” Melinda said. “We can use her skills.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

If you don't know the kind of person I am

and I don't know the kind of person you are

a pattern that others made may prevail in the world

and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

“A Ritual to Read Each Other” by William E. Stafford

“Are you sure about this?” Trip asked, keeping in step with Phil as she wound her way through a busy thoroughfare. He’d insisted on an escort and Phil hadn’t argued; guard uniforms didn’t go unnoticed in this part of the capital, and Garrett was about to learn that hiding in Coulfell wasn’t an easy thing to do.
 
“I mean to start as I intend to carry on,” she told him, ducking to sidestep a pair of men pulling a rug wagon. “He needs to understand the expectations of his role.” 
 
With a tilt of his head, Trip made it clear he wasn’t talking about the coming confrontation with Garrett. He’d made his skepticism about her decision to include the Widow in their planning plain; none of her friends, it seemed, believed she could be logical about Clint’s return. But she knew Widows kept their promises and Natasha’s loyalty to Clint was evident. Phil didn’t lie to herself; Natasha had admitted what she was and offered to help because of Clint. She openly cared about him, and he deserved someone who could give him that. 
 
“Well, he certainly picked an inn that fits his reputation,” Trip said as they came around a corner and saw their destination. 
 
The Rusty Sword was one of those establishments that Phil’s grandmother had warned her about, the kind noble ladies shouldn’t step foot in. Her brothers, on the other hand, often frequented this part of town, and she’d followed them on occasion, her curiosity too strong to ignore. What she’d found was a simple tavern where working folk came to hear minstrels play drinking songs. Yes, it could get raucous, but the stew was hearty and the proprietor, an ex-Imperial guard, kept the peace by virtue of his wide shoulders and the broadsword hanging behind the bar. And if some unscrupulous types sat at corner tables, well, that was how life worked. 
 
Every city had its darker parts; her father had believed it was the nature of blood to find a balance between the bright and the shadows. His goal had always been to give the people a say in their lives, to make opportunities for all who lived there. Some, like the Viperia, sought to do away with the small houses and winding alleys, the places where so called unsavory types congregated, replacing them with new and bigger and cleaner. But sPhil had come to realize what that meant was getting rid of the poor and those they didn’t like. Lord Daniel had torn down the area where immigrants lived in Whitehall and given the land to his favorite nobles, all in the name of progress. 
 
The sign hanging above the wooden door was battered and weathered but the image was clear: a sword left leaning against a tree, rusting from disuse. She let Trip pull the handle open, leaving two guards outside as they entered. Inside, the rectangular common room was only half-full; she’d timed their arrival for late afternoon, between noon meal and supper, for just the right level of drama. Too many people and it would be a performance; too few and the word wouldn’t spread fast enough. No, Phil was going to lay her agenda on the table and make a statement aimed squarely at Garrett … and any of those who had their hooks in him. 
 
“Good day, Logan.” She addressed the owner behind the bar, a man with a rugged face and bushy mustache. 
 
“Princess … Your Majesty.” He paused and corrected himself, bowing his  head “What brings you to my humble place this fine day? I have a nice pinot noir, if you’re drinking.” 
 
“A glass would be appreciated.” She almost nodded in return, forgetting for a moment that a Queen only tilts to acknowledge others. “But I won’t be staying long; I’m here to have a word with one of your guests.” 
 
Logan’s eye flicked over to a table by the fireplace where three men sat, the surface filled with empty tankards. “Coming right up.” 
 
Backbone straight, head level, eyes forward, shoulders back like Kicho had taught her, Phil turned her attention to the men. Garrett was easy to pick out; he had the Emperor’s unique grey eyes. But she didn’t remember the extra weight around the midsection, the wrinkled sun darkened skin, the watery irises, and the slight shake in his hand as he sat his mug down. 
 
“Oopsy,” Garrett said as he pushed his chair back and stood, wavering as he did and hanging onto the table lip to keep upright. A beat behind him, his two companions rose as well. “Told you boys we should go to the palace first rather than stopping to wet our whistle.” 
 
She gave the other two only a moment’s flicker of her gaze and that was all she needed to see they were minders, sent to ride herd on Garrett. Whether they were in the employ of the Emperor, some other party, or both she’d know soon enough. Instead of reacting, she put on her best unamused look and waited, her eyes trained on Garrett’s flushed face.
 
“Right, titles, introductions.” Garret waved an arm as he bowed and almost lost his balance. “Lord John Garrett, at your service, Your Highness.”

“Lord Garrett,” she acknowledged. “I trust your journey to our country was pleasant.” 
 
“Quite so.” Garrett smiled and there was an echo of the younger man she’d seen at court, the one quick with a flirty wink and to offer an arm. “So easy we arrived earlier than expected. Didn’t want to bother you, what with all the preparations and meetings and pointless political shenanigans you’re probably dealing with.” 
 
“Your drink, Your Majesty.” 
 
The brown haired barmaid bobbed her head as she curtsied, holding the full glass steady; Garrett’s eyes were drawn to the curve of her breasts that swelled above the gathered edge of her shirt. While he was distracted, Trip pulled a chair from another table for Phil; she sat, took the wine and sipped. 
 
“Sit, John, and let’s talk.”
 
Garrett laughed as he settled in his chair, picked his mug back up and took a swig. “Well, that answers that. Most said you’d be an easy bleed, but others told me you’re tough as balls. Guess I know which it is now. Can’t wait for old Wunnie to realize he’s gonna have to actually expend time and energy to get what he wants.”
 
“I’m quite aware of His Imperial Highness’ agenda in this endeavor.” She put specific emphasis on the title. “And I have made my position clear; our goals are not mutually exclusive.” 
 
“Gods’ blood, you talk like him.” Garrett wrinkled his nose. “Big words instead of simple language.” 
 
“Then let’s be straight. The deal is good for everyone; you get your debts paid, Coulfell gets Imperial troops -- I assume they’re on their way and you decided to ride ahead to exhibit that you’re not cuckolded yet -- and the Emperor will have a bloodline claim to the throne here.” 
 
“What Uncle Wunnie wants more than anything is a new heir.” Garrett might be drunk, but he could still quickly drop the good old boy act. “He’ll do anything to kick me down the line of succession. You and me, we’re nothing more than vessels.” 
 
“Trust me, I know all about being bought and sold.” She leaned forward and saw Garrett flinch at the coldness in her voice. “And I’m also an expert at coming out on top of even the worst situation, whether that’s Imperial politics or under-the-table dealings.” Phil caught the glance the two men shared, her message clear. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me, Garrett, and we’ll get along just fine.” 
 
“No, ma’am, I am definitely not going to do that.” He gave her a calculating look, made only slightly ridiculous when he burped. “But I should warn you that I like a woman who can turn me over her knee and teach me a lesson.  Keep this up and we could make a baby before the ink is dry on the contract.”  
 
She hid her shiver as he reached for her hand; before Trip could intercept, she shifted away, sipping her wine to move out of the radius of his fingers. 
 
“Speaking of the contract, there are a few things we need to settle,” she said, steering the conversation right where she wanted it to go. “While we wait to see if the union bears fruit, do you prefer a room in the palace or a house of your own? Either is amenable, although a separate residence would have to be vetted for security concerns.” 
 
Once he realized she wasn’t going to rise to the bait, Garrett was actually not that hard to work with. Oh, he had no sense of boundaries and said whatever popped into his head, but he truly didn’t appear to have any agenda other than wanting to fulfill his whims and not have to work at all. That could be an elaborate mask for ulterior motives -- and Phil was certain he was hiding many things -- but she believed him when he vowed he didn’t want the Imperial throne. 
 
When he was too far in his cups to remember he’d already pinched the barmaid twice, she let Trip round up him and his companions -- who’d consumed far less and said virtually nothing through the whole conversation except to acknowledge Garrett’s occasional question -- directing them to the suite of rooms Melinda had readied at The High Fell Inn just outside the palace walls. 
 
“For the wine,” she told Logan as she left coins on the bar, “and the use of the room. ” 
 
“Not a problem.” He swept them into his palm and they disappeared behind the bar. “Tonight’s take should more than make up for the guards’ presence.” 
 
“Everyone will want to hear the news,” she agreed, giving Logan tacit approval to share what he knew. He was a good man, had proven so many times when he’d half-carried one of her brothers home after a long night of drinking. 
 
It felt strange, memories that made her smile in the midst of so much death. But lIfe went on; the sun rose every morning, hidden behind a cloud or beaming brightly, and time passed, a constant progress that never slowed. Phil thought about that as they left the tavern, the shadows lengthening across the cobblestone street, eaves of buildings making shapes on the ground. Whether she wanted it to or not, tomorrow would come, and the day after that, she’d stand before a reluctant Bishop Blake and tie herself, however briefly and loosely, to a drunkard. After that she’d lay with him and, if blood bred true, she’d soon be carrying a new life of her own. 
 
“The muscle’s definitely Hydrone; he’s got the tattoo on the back of his neck.” Clint appeared beside her, dressed in a guard uniform, hair hidden under the black hat they wore. 
 
“From the marks on his fingers,” Trip said. “I’d say he likes to warm them up with punches.” 
 
“Status tats, the marks,one for each hand he’d taken.” Clint kept one step behind Phil, covering her left side. “The other is the one in charge, but the question is if he did the hiring or is contracting out. Nat’s on his trail; he’ll have to find some way to get instructions -- I’m banking on a third party that’s keeping a low profile. Nat’ll suss that out; she’s got eyes on them.” 
 
“I thought she was going to break his fingers after the third pinch,” Phil said. “I would have.” 
 
“Wait.” Trip flipped around and walked backwards so he could see Phil and Clint. “The barmaid? But I thought …” 
 
“You saw what she wanted you to see,” Phil explained. “It’s uncanny, isn’t it?” 
 
“I’d heard they practice an ancient type of blood magic,” Trip said, “but I didn’t believe it. Clint, man, you always find the most interesting people.” 
 
Clint’s ever changing eyes caught Phil’s for a moment. “That I do.” 
  
“I am not climbing out the window and down the tree,” Natasha flatly stated. “Nostalgia be damned, those burrs are hard to get out of hair.” 
 
Clint grinned as he tied his dark cloak around his neck; his soft soled boots made no sound as he opened the door to his dressing room. 
 
“Nah, I was just riling you up. There’s a back way down to the kitchen through Uncle Jashu’s old study. Winnie changed it to a sewing room the year before I left, but she’s never in there after dinner.” 
 
She followed, close on his heels, the moonlight filtering through the one small window enough for them both to navigate the shelves filled with clothes, neat folded stacks of pants and shirts, jackets hung on padded hangers, and drawers overflowing with cravats and ties and socks and underwear. 
 
“I’ve never known you to have more than two shirts at a time and here you are with all of this.” She waved her hand around the space. “You said you were comfortable before, but this isn’t what I imagined.” 
 
“Yeah, well, Winnie and Tori stay up-to-date on fashion and always insist I have the latest styles. Me, I prefer comfort over frills and lace … although you have taught me to appreciate a good bolt of silk.” 
 
He opened the other door and led them across the hallway before slipping into another room. A large table was littered with thin parchment, patterns scribed with fine chalk lines; bolts of fabric lined the shelves on the nearest wall. Wooden boxes held a rainbow hues of thread on another along with hoops of various sizes. A small floor loom and free standing needlework frame took up most of the other side. Stretched across the frame was a piece of linen, intricate crewel work spread over two-thirds. 
 
“She’s good.” Natasha stopped to get a closer look, ducking her head to glance underneath. “As neat on the underside as it is on the top.” 
 
“Do your best even when no one’s watching,” Clint repeated the oft heard phrase. “She still pricks her finger and makes sure to christen the fabric with a drop of blood at the beginning and end of a project.” 
 
The servants corridor was just on the other side; it led to a narrower staircase that ran down to the floor below. The kitchen was through a door and out into the back courtyard, a low slung building connected by a covered walkway. Smoke floated up from the main chimney and people moved in the far room, baking the bread for tomorrow in the wood-fired oven.  Clint took them through a different series of spaces, a larder filled with fruits and vegetables then past a cold storage and a small room that held tables and trestles for servants to eat. 
 
“Hello, Clinton.” The woman by the banked fire lowered her hood and the warm orange glow reflected off the streaks in her dark hair. 
 
“Victoria.” Clint came to a stop at his cousin’s steady gaze. “Winnie said you’d be home later.” 
 
“I just arrived and wanted some tea.” She raised a hand and showed him the porcelain cup. “And I figured you’d be headed back out. Garrett’s rooms? Or have you discovered other places to search?”  
 
“I’m not …” Clint started to protest but Natasha cut him off.

“One of the minders slipped out to meet someone just before dinner,” she said. “I tracked them to an inn near the Cathedral; must have been a drop because he didn’t meet anyone there. We’re going to have a drink and canvas the place.” 
 
“Nat.” Clint turned to look at his friend. “What are you …” 
 
“Lady Romanova and I are acquainted.” Victoria stepped closer, putting her cup on the nearest table.
 
“Remember when you had that stomach flu and I did that job alone?” Natasha patted his arm, a sign that she’d explain fully later. “I got Yelena to go with me instead?” 
 
“You never said anything,” Clint protested. 
 
“She didn’t give a name.” Natasha shrugged it off, but Clint caught the surreptitious glance she sent Victoria and suddenly understood. He’d known Tori’s preferences and she was certainly Natasha’s type. 
 
“Wait.” Clint rounded on his cousin. “You hired a Widow? Since when does the Council need to …” 
 
“Take a minute, you’ll get there,” Victoria said. 
 
“You’re working for the Spy Master; the man has people everywhere.” Clint huffed. “Did I tell you, Nat, how Victoria used to know everything that happened in the house? Took me far too long to realize she had a network that fed her every bit of gossip.” 
 
“People talk in front of servants.” Victoria shrugged. “Which is how I knew about your afternoon adventure; the runners are spreading the news all over town that the Queen dragged Garrett to the palace by the short and curlies. I assumed, correctly, that you’d be as close to Phil as possible.” 
 
“Don’t start.” Clint shut down that line of conversation; his patience was already frayed from watching Garrett’s attempt to flirt with Phil. “There’s nothing Nat hasn't already given me grief for.” 
 
She stared at him for a heartbeat then her face softened. “Okay. There’s enough intrigue afoot without the unresolved sexual tension to keep us busy, but I reserve the right to revisit your bone headed belief you’re not good enough at a later date. Come here.” 
 
“I”m not bone headed,” Clint mumbled, going easily into the hug she offered. 
 
“Now,” she said as she stepped back. “Are you talking about The Covered Wagon or The Maiden’s Blush? I’ve got a contact at both of them.” 
 
“The Wagon, and we’d appreciate the tip,” Natasha replied. “We can use all the information we can get before the Queen leaves for the lodge.” 
 
“So she’s serious about the moon fasting?” Victoria untied her cloak and slipped it off, draping it over the table. “Phil’s clever, I’ll give her that; Garrett’s an idiot but he’s not the problem. There are other forces in play; I’ve been tracking some rumors about the Emperor’s health that I can’t pin down. Word is that he has replaced the Grand Healer with someone young with new magicks. If he’s sick …” 
 
“A second heir is even more important,” Clint finished. 
 
“A child regency would mean an Imperial Privy Council until they reach their majority; the jockeying will be cutthroat,” Natasha said. “Literally.”
 
“It would make Phil a bigger target, damn it,” Clint cursed. “Power hungry nobles will be knocking on her door.”  
 
“All the more reason to find out who the interested parties are,” Victoria said. “I’ll put out feelers, see who else might have recently arrived or be a little too interested in the comings and goings. Honestly, if whoever paid for that spell thought they were going to sew dissent in the country, they made a hell of a mistake. The thieves’ gallery and the assassin’s league are actively supporting Phil; they won’t take kindly to the syndicates or family types operating on their soil.” 
 
“Thieves, assassins, and Widows. Does Winnie know who you hang out with?” Clint joked. 
 
“Mother’s really good at not asking questions she doesn’t want to know the answer to.” Victoria picked up her cup. “I’m going to have a hot bath. Bring me back some information we can use.” 
 
“Yes, ma’am.” Clint leaned over and bussed a light kiss on her cheek. “Bet you missed me.” 
 
“It was much quieter while you were gone,” she replied. “I’m glad you’re home.” 
 
He kept his silence until they were four streets away. 
 
“So, you and Tori?” was what finally popped out of his mouth. 
 
“Clint.” 
 
“She’s my cousin and you’re practically my sister,” Clint objected. “That’s weird, right?” 
 
“First, I didn’t know, and, second, need I remind you of your habit of sleeping with women who hire us?” 
 
“Once, Nat. Once,” he insisted. “I thought Jessica and I had a real chance.” 
 
“She shot you with a crossbow,” Natasha reminded him. “What about that Cherie woman?” 
 
“I liked her,” he mumbled, unhappy with the turn of the conversation. 
 
“You left her stranded in Montleonte for a week.” 
 
“It was an emergency!” He didn’t know why she always brought that up. 
 
“And then there was Bobbi Morse … you followed her around like a lost puppy that one summer.” 
 
“Bobbi never hired us!” He threw his hands up. 
 
“Clint.” She grabbed his arm and drew them to a halt by one of the fountains at the crossing of four streets. “Has it ever occurred to you that the reason you have bad luck with women is because you’ve never dealt with your feelings towards Phil? It’s hard to have a connection when you’re already half committed to someone else.” 
 
“I don’t … I haven’t …” Clint was sure his mouth was hanging open, but his brain was swirling with what Natasha had just said. He could hear Cherie’s voice in his head, telling him he was a loser, Jessica’s complaint that he never put her first. “Do you think I sabotage myself?” 
 
“I think,” she took his hand and started walking again, drawing him along with her, “you cared about all of them, but your heart was already given.”
 
“I didn’t mean to hurt them, but they weren’t …” 
 
“I know, dearheart. Nothing wrong with enjoying sex without a bond,” she told him as fell in with a group heading towards the cathedral. “You should maybe be more clear about that up front.” 
 
“Gods’ blood, how messed am I? Can’t have who I want, can’t have anyone else either?” Clint could hear the whine creeping into his voice and he hated it. 
 
“You’re human like everyone else,” she reminded him, turning a corner onto a busy street. 
 
Not far down, Clint saw the lights of the inn spilling out onto the sidewalk, music filtering into the street through open windows. He focused on the job at hand, more than willing to repress his own non-existent screwed up love life in favor of doing something useful. Slinging an arm across Natasha’s shoulders, he shifted his weight and added a bit of a hitch to his gait. People see what they want to see; one of the first lessons Natasha taught him was how to change his body language. Rounding his shoulders, dropping his gaze, tapping his fingers -- it was easy to become a different person.
 
Despite being mostly full, Natasha found them a table near the fireplace where they had a good view of the doors and the stairs to the rooms. Before they’d even settled in their seats, a barmaid headed their way; round in all the best places, her dark hair was pulled back in a thick braid that hung over her shoulder down to the top of her generous breasts. Ebony skin reflected the warm glow of the candles and she flashed a smile at them as she stopped. 
 
“What can I get you fine folks?” Her eyes slid over Clint to hover on Natasha. 
 
“How’s Denby’s stew?” Natasha asked, giving her the code Victoria had passed along. 
 
“Denby’s not cooking, so I’d recommend the beef pot that gentleman over there is having. Drover’s market was yesterday and the meat’s real fresh.” She didn’t nod or turn her head but her eyes darted to a table not far away where a man sat by himself, his eyes hooded and mouth set in what seemed to be a perpetual scowl. 
 
“Guess I’ll take the beef pot,” Natasha said.  “And a pint to wash it down.”
 
She turned to Clint.
 
“I’ll have the same, and bring us some of that dark brown bread with honey and butter.” Clint didn’t bother to hide his glance in a different direction where two more men were nursing ales and steadily demolishing a whole round loaf, crumbs scattered about the table.
 
“Indeed, sir, I’ll get right on it.” She bobbed again, her whole body part of the motion, then she moved away with the grace of someone used to winding around tables and avoiding elbows. 
 
Their targets now acquired, Clint sat forward, propping his chin on his hand. To their right, a group of three men were conducting business, a sale of a parcel of land and buildings down near the horse grounds. On their left were a woman and two men, related by the same slant of their noses and curve of cheeks, engaged in a lively conversation filled with laughter and talking over each other. The sound of the chatter formed a wall around them; with a tilt of his head, he let his hair fall enough to hide his lips. He’d yet to master Natasha’s trick of forming her mouth to cover her words. 
 
“Single guy’s been out on the rim. He’s got a jarfly bite behind his ear. And there’s some ink by his left cuff,” he observed. “No earrings, but there are two holes.”
 
“Madripoor. His shoes are from that shop down by the bordellos.” There was no reason to question her conclusion; Natasha was always right. “His shirt has backside stitching in blue; that’s a signature of Jaquin the Tailor.” 
 
“General Coy? Working with or against the Hydrones?” Clint mulled it over in his mind. Coy ran the biggest syndicate in Madripoor and was as ruthless as it came. “But not with our other two. From the way they move and their terrible table manners, I’d say mercenary guild, level three at the most.” 
 
“Worse.” Natasha wrinkled her nose. “Private hire, from somewhere on the continent, the kind certain nobles tend to favor because they’re cheap. Official mercs wouldn’t have their money pouches in their back pocket.”
 
“Lots of those with an interest in what happens in Coulfell.” Made sense to Clint; the balance of power in the Imperial states was delicate on the best day and the blood spell had already upset it. “But quite a coincidence they ended up here. Lots of good inns in town.” 
 
“Ummm,” Natasha hummed her agreement under breath as the barmaid returned with their drinks and food. As soon as the warm bread was on the table, Natasha sliced an end off and dipped it in the honey, nibbling a bite. “Does the cook make the bread here? It really is good.” 
 
“Oh no, milady. We get it from a bakery by the west gate, near artificer’s alley. I can get you the name of the owner if you wish,” the maid replied. 
 
“Please do.” 
 
“So they’re from the west.” Clint dipped a spoon into his bowl and scooped up a chunk of meat. It was well-cooked and fell apart in his mouth. “That’s obvious.” 
 
“And expected. Stane would be the first in line to be a royal advisor.” 
 
“Money and power is all he cares about.” 
 
Clint had met Obediah a few times over the years; Starkridge was Coulfell’s closest neighbor and strongest ally. Even during the excesses of Howard’s reign, the Coulsons and Starks had maintained a cordial relationship. Antony, close to Will’s age, had been a partner-in-crime, sometimes the instigator and always willing to slip out of official functions. He’d been part of the infamous Triafydian brandy hunt and had followed Clint into the crawlspace under the Imperial cellars without hesitation. He’d also been the one who realized how gifted Fitz was and had pressed Dwan to follow his passion. 
 
Tony’s loss was a harsh blow; Will’s letter with the news was blunt with his suspicion that Stane had a hand in the kidnapping and death of their friend. And if Stane was capable of killing a man he often said was like a son to him, what did it mean for Phil that he had eyes and ears watching the proceedings here?
 
They certainly had something to tell Victoria when they returned to the house.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

You know, I think men love wars . . .

And my incurable anger, my unmendable wounds

break open further with tears, I am crying helplessly,

and they still control the world, and you are not in my arms.’

Adrienne Rich,

IV, Twenty-one Love Poems

“Sir Rogers, I completely understand your concerns, but I assure you the royal lodge is as secure as even you can make it. I have already agreed to an Imperial presence and have the utmost trust in  my personal guards,” Phil insisted for what felt like the fortieth time. “The ritual will proceed as planned.” 
 
When the guard troop arrived yesterday, Phil had been excited to realize that it was led by none other than Steven Grant Rogers, hero of the Continental Wars. She’d grown up hearing stories of his and his battle band’s bravery, how they turned the tide when Lord Schmidt’s armies were pressing towards the Imperial city of Triafyrd. Not that she’d admit it, but she’d cried more than once over the tale of the fall of James Buchanan Barnes and Rogers’ subsequent sacrifice play. 
 
But the hero worship had died away quickly once she realized that Rogers was stubborn and ready to question every decision she made. He’d sent a team to the border, but stayed to check palace security, making a nuisance of himself while Phil was busy finalizing the details for her month-long absence. Even Melinda lost her famed composure when Rogers wanted to walk the inter-passages; no amount of logical explanation that the small interior hallways that ran between specific rooms had been cleared and were visually checked every day could sway his resolve. Poor Trip got roped into showing the broad-shouldered man the panels in the back of wardrobes and behind bookshelves. 
 
“Look, I’m not suggesting your people haven’t done their work; from everything I’ve seen, they’re doing a damn fine job.” He must have picked up on the frustration bleeding into her voice because he stepped back, opening a space for her to move out from behind her desk where she’d been signing last minute directives. “But the Emperor has tasked me with ensuring yours and Lord Garrett’s safety personally …” 
 
“Yes, yes, I know.” She stopped by one of the overstuffed chairs; for a second, she closed her eyes and then she sighed, giving up on winning this battle. “You can ride out with your men, do your inspection, but then I want you to focus on the borders and protecting the kingdom. That’s why I’ve allowed you to operate on my sovereign soil, not to follow me around or get cobwebs in your hair.” 
 
“Agreed.” He smiled and Phil was struck by just how handsome he was, high cheekbones and strong jaw, muscular chest and narrow waist. But Phil found herself completely annoyed with the man who was unconsciously running a hand through his blonde strands, leaving them messy and falling over his face. “I’ll just need to …” 
 
The study door opened and Melinda entered; at her heels was James Rhodes, Rogers’ second-in-command. She’d gotten to know Rhodey through Anthony Stark, and he’d become a good friend over the years. His presence as part of the Imperial guard went a long way to soothing the ruffled feathers of her Council. Well-liked among the nobility, Rhodey would make a perfect liaison for the month she’d be gone. 
 
“It’s time to head to the chapel.” Melinda immediately caught the tension in the room; with a practiced eye, she took in Phil’s dress and hairdo, the blush of rouge and bit of eyeliner that Winifred had added as she helped prepare Phil for the ceremony. “Are you ready? Trip has a full escort waiting.” 
 
“I added a few more things to the satchel.” Phil waved at the heavy leather bag. “It appears Sir Rogers will be accompanying us to the lodge for a brief visit.” 
 
“Ah.” Melinda’s face showed no reaction other than the short exhale of a word. “Shall I have the stable loft room prepared for him? Or does he prefer to sleep with his men?” 
 
That she addressed her questions to Phil didn’t go unnoticed. Rogers shifted, opened his mouth, but Rhodey spoke before he could. 
 
“The Captain always stays with the troops. I’m sure they can bunk up for however long he’ll be there,” Rhodes said. “I know you value your privacy and that Trip has done an excellent job securing the space, but the Emperor can be …”
 
“Paranoid?” Melinda suggested. 
 
Rhodey chuckled. “I would go with thorough, but, yeah, something like that. Considering his history, it’s kind of understandable. So if he wants it to happen, we make it happen. That’s part of the job. I’m sure Steve will be as unobtrusive as possible.” 
 
Phil raised her eyebrows at that statement. “Let’s go with thorough there too,” she said. “Sir Rogers is very, very thorough.” 
 
At least the back and forth with Rogers had kept her mind off of the impending ceremony. She’d filled the last day with every bit of planning and minutiae she could to stave off thinking about it, staying up late into the night and waking early to get as much done as she could. She wasn’t going to be out-of-communication; the lodge was only an hour ride and, between daily meetings with Melinda and Trip, she was going to be actively running the kingdom. 
 
Surprisingly, Bishop Blake had few objections to the fasting; he was more upset that she’d have to stop visiting the graves for the last few required days. She’d finally agreed to hold vigil under the tree her father had planted after he married her mother. It would give her something to fill the day besides paperwork and discovering how much more annoying Garrett could be. 
 
Trip was in the hallway and his handpicked guards fell into step around her as she headed to the stairwell. Rogers and Rhodey flanked them, forming a diamond pattern with her and Melinda at the center. She almost laughed; Mel rolled her eyes, just as aware of the absurdity of the situation.  
 
“It’s not too late to make a break for it,” Melinda whispered, and Phil knew she was serious. If she wanted to back out, Melinda would support her. 
 
“Let’s get this done,” she replied. 
 
The Coulfell Chapel was small in comparison to other church sanctuaries; originally designed for family use, it held only 24 pews in front of the central altar. Through the generations, stained picture glass had been installed in the windows and ornate metal artwork filled alcoves. The cloths that covered the blessing table had been designed by Phil’s great grandmother, covered with tiny stitches of bright thread that depicted scenes from the holy scrolls. She’d argued against using the chapel -- moon fastings were more contracts than sacred rites -- but the Council and the Bishop had won that fight. In return, she got a much less formal and hopefully shorter announcement of intent. 
 
The room was filled with nobles and guards and what seemed like half the Cathedral’s cadre of priests. Bishop Blake was presiding, of course; it wouldn’t do to have anyone’s words of consent except his. But standing beside him was his son Felix in his fanciest robe with the long aubergine stole; he winked at Phil when she entered the doorway. Looking around, she saw a number of familiar faces -- Maria and Jasper and Mack and Victoria and Winifred and Harald Simmons and Alstair Fitz and both Kenson and Lian May --  all of them smiling at her -- and she suddenly felt better. 
 
Standing by himself, Garrett shifted his weight and tugged at the collar of his formal jacket. His minders were nowhere in evidence, a testimony to Melinda’s iron will; she’d ruthlessly limited the number of guests, refusing anyone the right to bring servants or aides. Only the guards who were stationed around the walls were allowed inside. Still, Phil took one more glance, but she didn’t see Clint. It wasn’t a surprise, but she’d held out hope he’d show. Victoria gave a tiny head shake when Phil made eye contact. 
 
“Your Majesty.” Trip touched her elbow. “If you’re ready?” 
 
Shoulders back, chin up, straight spine … she exhaled and stepped forward, moving to stand by Garrett.  She could do this. 
 
She had to do this. 
 
“Before we begin the … announcement,” Bishop Blake said, tripping over the agreed upon term. “I have a few short words I’d like to say about the value of lineage and the sanctity of blood unions.” 
 
There hadn’t been any discussion of ‘words’ but the Bishop never passed up an opportunity to speak. Phil cut her eyes to Felix; he gave a barely there shrug, all too used to his father’s penchant when he had a captive audience. So she let the rise and fall of his voice drone past, thinking instead of what happened next. How she was going to manage running the kingdom without being in the palace. The short ride to the lodge, the small phail in her skirt’s pocket, the nightgown packed in her bag. The number of guards and the Imperial troops and how close they would be. 
 
“... a step taken with deliberation and sobriety …” 
 
Garrett gave a quiet cough then rolled his eyes when Phil glanced his way; he didn’t hide his grin at the pointed barbs.  Phil, on the other hand, wasn’t happy; she slipped into her unamused face and aimed it at the Bishop. Kicho had been the best at getting her point across without a word and Phil had learned at her knee. Within a minute, the Bishop cleared his throat. 
 
“As declared by the Book of the Blood, we come today to hold fast to the promise of the future …” 
 
From there, it went quickly and Garrett’s sweaty hand was in hers, the red rope curled around their fingers. No knots, just a coil that easily unspooled. No kiss, no promises, just a “yes” and then they were done. Everyone stood; there was jostling among the guards to be the one to take the lead but Phil paid them no mind as she left the room. 
 
She’d put her foot down on Winifred’s idea of a formal state dinner; no way was she sitting for hours, making small talk, spending money on course after course of food to appease the nobles.  That would have delayed their departure until after dark, and even though the path to the lodge was well-maintained, it did leave the main road and pass through some dense forest. 
 
“The horses are prepared.” Melinda fell in step with her. “Bags are already delivered and May has packed a big enough food basket for the next three days although I doubt she’ll wait that long before sending more.” 
 
“Tomorrow at the latest.” Phil turned towards her room. “Bets on chicken au vin.” 
 
“No way I’m taking that one; it’s your favorite,” Melinda said. 
 
Changing didn’t take long; she was glad to don riding pants, leaving the heavy skirt across the back of a chair. She let the maid clean her face and take out the pins in her hair, pulling it back with a simple bit of braided leather. Before she left, she took the phial and slipped it into her jacket. Oro had made it swift-acting and long-lasting, so she still had plenty of time to decide. 
 
They managed to slip out without a big fanfare; only the council members were there along with the Bishop as witnesses. She’d just about given up looking when Clint appeared, decked out in a guard uniform like before; he offered her a boost, his hand steady on her back as she swung into the saddle before retreating to his own horse.  A bit of tension faded as they headed out, a sense of security knowing he was there. 
 
A few times on the ride, Garrett tried to start a conversation; she answered some of his questions, told him a bit of the history of the lodge, but chatting was beyond her. Anxiety had her head spinning with what ifs and what might be; her stomach tightened as the trees closed in around them and Garrett seemed nervous himself, pausing to occasionally take a sip from the flask he’d unearthed from his pocket. 
 
Built with wood and river rock, the lodge was actually a series of buildings nestled against a rocky outcropping and arranged around a large oak that spread its branches high over the roofs of the main house, stable, and servant’s cottage.  A creek curved  along the edge of the clearing, running down to join the river at the bottom of the small hill. A path followed it, and Phil knew every twist and turn, where the water was best for wading and the easiest places to cross to the other side. 
 
“I’ll go in first,” Rogers said as he dismounted. “As I clear the rooms, you can enter.” 
 
“Well, aren't you a go-getter?” Garret slid off his horse. “You gonna find a good spot to watch so you can report back to the Emperor when the deed is done?”
 
Rogers drew his back up straight. “I’m not going to …” 
 
“Enough.” Phil could feel a headache tightening across her temples. “Do your sweep, Captain and be done with it.” 
 
Rogers looked like he wanted to argue, but he spun on his heel and entered the front door. Trip nodded at two palace guards to join him. Counting to ten, Phil dismounted and followed; she was tired of this one upmanship. 
 
“What you need is a big glass of wine and some rest,” Rhodey said. “It’s been a long day.” 
 
“A long few weeks, yes,” Phil agreed, untying her cloak and hanging it on one of the hooks in the wall near the large stone fireplace.  
 
She watched as Rogers went in and out of every room, even climbing the ladder to the loft space that her father had made into an office. She hadn’t been here since before the spell had taken her family and it hurt deep in her chest to see Will’s dirty boots by the door and the stack of books by Tophe’s favorite armchair. The door to Dwan and Bertie’s bedroom was open -- they never remembered to close it -- the quilts Aunt Juliona had made them draped across the feather filled mattresses. 
 
“The danger is real.” Rhodey’s voice was quiet, keeping the conversation between them as Garrett wandered into the room, dropping onto one of the wooden backed chairs. “We need to take all precautions.”
 
“I know, but I can’t live my life in fear,” she said. “Logic only works on logical behavior; we can’t prepare for the irrational.” 
 
Guards carried in the bags, leaving them at the head of the hallway, and the two maids brought in the baskets of food; Clint had the heavy satchel,  tipping his head to her before he toted it up the ladder to the office.  
 
“Never hurts to have contingencies.” Rhodey knew Clint too well to be fooled by the uniform. “Look, Steve’s a good man and I trust his instincts.” 
 
There was something about the way Rhodey said it, the slight emphasis on ‘trust’ and ‘good.’ 
 
“We all have our suspicions.” Phil phrased her reply carefully. “Some hit closer to home.” 
 
“Hard to fathom how little we truly know about the people around us,” Rhodey agreed. 
 
Just who did Rogers suspect? Garrett, of course, but his baggage was clearly on display. Maybe his ignorance was an act after all. Someone in the palace? Phil had spent far too many hours in the dark of night wondering how the sample of blood was taken and who delivered it to the sorcerer who cast the spell. They’d have to be close, probably someone she knew. An outside force? Another lord angling to add to their power or even a score? 
 
“Seems tight enough,” Rogers said as he climbed down the stairs. “I’ll write up a procedure to secure the place at night, to vet anyone coming in and out, and run the men through it tonight before I head back in the morning. Overlapping watches with your men and mine should suffice.” 
 
“Watches.” Phil had a sudden image of a guard with eyes on her at all times. 
 
“Perimeter plus eyes up high; the stable roof is flat and would make a good spot. Most likely egress is from the path or up from the river, but we can’t rule out a forest approach.” Rogers waved a hand around the interior. “The master bedroom has ground floor windows to be covered …” 
 
“I’ll be in the small blue room,” Phil cut him off. “Lord Garrett may have his pick of the purple or green. The red will not be in use.” 
 
“Ah, okay.” Rogers seemed to want to make a comment about that, but he held himself back. “Honestly, I’d prefer someone inside at all times, but I’ll settle for an outside guard to make response time quicker.” 
 
“Outside only.” She met his eyes squarely and he looked away first. “Now that you’re done here, there is a room above the stable that is ready for you or you can sleep with your men. Tell them not to set up too close to the servant’s quarters; the maids are under my protection and I’ll not have them bothered.” 
 
“Of course; I won’t tolerate any harassment and my men know it.” Rogers called to the guard who was carrying in Phil’s satchel filled with books. “Rumlow? Round up and meet at the stables for a debrief.” 
 
“You got it, Cap.” Dark haired and with a full beard, Rumlow set the full hamper he was carrying by the others. “Just us or everyone?”
 
“Ask Trip and his people to join us; we’ll hammer out a plan together.” Rogers waited until the guard left then turned back to Phil. “Good evening, Your Majesty.” 
 
Rhodey hung back after Rogers left. “I’m heading back shortly; Trip and I are going to coordinate rotations for the palace.” He glanced at Garrett who was kicked back with his eyes closed. “You going to be alright?” 
 
“I don’t even know what that is anymore,” she answered honestly. “None of this is right, but it’s what I have to do.” 
 
“Gods, I’m so sorry, Phil.” He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. “If you need me, I’ll be here. I promise.” 
 
“Go do your ‘protect and serve’ thing.” She gently nudged his shoulder. “I’ll be fine.” 
 
Silence fell after the door closed and Phil stood, for a moment, smelling the faint whiff of wood smoke and the scent of cleaning polish that always hung in the air. If she imagined, it could be one of those trips where Will and Tophe were out in the stable talking horses while Bertie and Dwan had already disappeared towards the river. They’d come back splattered with mud in wet clothes that would need washing. Her father would be up in the loft, sitting in the chair with the padded cushions, reading whatever history he’d uncovered or working through a stack of papers. But there was no slamming of doors or distant shouts. No occasional chuckles or scratching of quill to parchment. 
 
“Look, what happened, the whole spell thing, it’s fucked up.” Garrett pushed back his chair as he stood. “I know, okay? They don’t get it, can’t understand. For them, it’s more of an idea, king and country and all that bullshit. For you, it’s your family. Gods be damned politics and power plays … they don’t care about people, just what they can do for them.” 
 
She started to snap back at him but a sadness in his eyes gave her pause. “How old were you?” 
 
“Nine.” He shrugged, the fire bomb that killed his parents a long time ago. “Only reason I lived was Mother’s paranoia. After the assassins got to my sister, she made sure we never slept in the same building or rode in the same carriage. After Cousin Edgwythe's ship went down, she’d only send me over land routes.”
 
Garrett’s mother, the Emperor’s sister, had been an artist of some renown; Phil had seen some of her work on display when she’d visited the Imperial city with her father. They were dead now, all of the Emperor’s siblings and his two children, Donawu and Edgwythe, killed in a blood rush for power that had left all sides bleeding. 
 
“You know, this kid is going to be a prime target. Soon as the Emperor removes me from the line of descent, every Lord and King will be jockeying for position. Some’ll support you, others’ll want to get you out of the way, some’ll want the kid gone.” He shook his head. “Children aren’t immune; just ask Edgwythe’s kid at the bottom of the ocean. Might be the best thing if nothing comes of this.” 
 
“And here I thought you didn’t want to be the heir anymore,” she said. He’d surprised her, this sudden burst of empathy.
 
“Gods no. I want nothing more than to go drink myself to death in some backwater port of call or overdose in a drugged bliss.” To emphasize the sentiment, he took a long drink from his flask. “Dealing with all that backstabbing is gonna be your job. Might not be as bad now that Aunt Nnedi is gone; she was the driving force behind most of the bloodletting. Wanted her son on the throne and didn’t care who she had to kill to get him there. Poor old Josiah; he just wanted to go to university and meet girls. Great irony of life that he and his sister both died during that influenza pandemic.” 
 
She didn’t know what to say and Garrett didn’t seem to be expecting any reply. He swung a satchel over his shoulder and looked down the hallway. 
 
“The red room was your fathers, eh?” he asked. “It’s probably the big one on the other side of the house. I’m good with either of the others.” 
 
“If you pick the green one, be careful. Bertie and Dwan liked to leave little surprises for Will and Tophe. It’ll be hidden and unexpected; they know … knew … the maids’ routines and avoided the obvious,” she warned. 
 
“You know, I didn’t know ‘em that much, but I think I would have liked them.” Garrett chuckled. “Purple it is.” 
 
Her own room was tucked behind the fireplace, a small space with a single bed and a window that, had the shutters not been closed, would have looked out onto the little green space between the lodge and the stable. Sheets were already tucked in, her favorite quilt turned down, a stack of books on the end table, all Melinda’s work to help her settle in. Clothes hung in her wardrobe, and the candle was a new taper of vanilla scented wax. Laid out across the end of the bed was the simple white nightgown and robe she’d picked out. 
 
Garrett’s words hung in her mind as she unbuttoned her jacket and hung it up. In all the rush to the moment, she’d been focused on his weaknesses and possible dangers, forgetting that he too had known catastrophic loss. His parents, his sister, his cousins, aunts, uncles … he and the Emperor were the only ones left. The very family that was supposed to care and support him had turned on each other. It didn’t matter who or why. Donawu had been young when he’d been killed. Edgwythe had been disowned by her father, gone into exile, had said she had no desire for the throne, and still she was dead. It wasn’t about hate or revenge, but about gaining power. That Garrett had turned to drugs and alcohol wasn’t all that surprising, really. Oh, Phil couldn’t forgive him selling people into slavery, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t understand how he’d gotten to that point. 
 
“Pardon me, Your Majesty.” The maid paused in the open doorway. “I’ve got the fire going; May sent meat pies that just need heating. When should we serve dinner?” 
 
This time, Natasha’s appearance didn’t surprise her; she had half-expected the woman to pop up somewhere. 
 
“Give us a candle mark then set up in the main room. We’ll be informal tonight.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

You say you are holy,

And that

Because I have not seen you sin.

Aye, but there are those

Who see you sin, my friend.

Stephen Crane

“Now this is a good glass of claret.” Garrett swirled the liquor then took a sip. “You should have some, it’ll help you loosen up.” 
 
Phil put down her fork and gave up pretending to eat. She’d picked at her food throughout dinner, her stomach unsettled, and even a slice of her favorite cinnamon and apple tart couldn’t temp her. The potion had been thick with the pungent pepper of the chasteberry, leaving an unpleasant taste in her mouth; Oro had been clear that she wasn’t to mix it with alcohol, so Natasha had brought her hot tea to go with the dessert. 
 
“I am perfectly capable of fulfilling my duty,” she said, flinching at how primly the words came out. 
 
“Right, duty. For Emperor and country, eh?” He grimaced as he put his empty plate on the table then pushed back his chair and tried to stand. One hand grabbed the table as he reeled in place. “Whoa, maybe I shouldn’t have had that last drink. Doesn’t usually hit me this hard.”
 
The sigh that escaped her lips was part of the pent-up anxiety that had been building all evening. Garrett had tried to be charming, telling story after story, most of them with him as the butt of the joke. In all honesty, it was much more than Grant had ever done. That man had never heard of foreplay much less a female orgasm; he was done and gone as fast as he could. At least Garrett was making an effort. 
 
“Do you need some help?” Phil rose as Garrett headed down the hall, bumping the sofa and an end table along the way. 
 
“Just need to see a man about a horse,” he called over his shoulder. “Be right back.” 
 
Standing there waiting didn’t appeal to her; nervous tension ran along her spine, making her antsy, so, after a few minutes, she decided slipping into her robe would make the whole process easier. She made it to her room and began to unbutton her vest when she heard an odd noise, a rasping rise and fall. Following the sound, she found Garrett slumped over the end of Will’s bed, his snores growing louder. 
 
“For the gods’ sake,” she grumbled. “Of course you’d pass out.” 
 
He rolled over, throwing one hand out and absently scratching at his belly, his shirt coming free from his pants where he hadn’t bothered to button them back up. 
 
“Oh, hey, yeah, I can …” he fumbled with his fingers, pushing at his underwear. “Might need you to …” 
 
HIs words trailed off as he slipped back into sleep; in only a few breaths, the snoring started again. 
 
“Well, that answers that.” She tugged off his boots and, with some awkward maneuvering, got his feet on the bed. 
 
“Was it good?” Garrett cracked his eyelids and blearily looked at her. “Baby made?” 
 
“It was fine.” She patted him on the shoulder. 
 
“Next time’ll be better,” he mumbled before drifting off. 
 
“If only it were that easy.” 
 
As she entered the living room, a hand grabbed her elbow. The man holding her was strong, his arm tightening around her waist. 
 
“Don’t make a sound,” a gravelly voice warned. 
 
Struggling, she tried to get enough space to drive her elbow into his solar plexus, but he only squeezed tighter
 
“You’re only making this harder than it has to be. I promise it will be quick,” he said. 
 
A thump and a bang and Garrett staggered around the corner. “What the fuck?” 
 
The man’s attention split for a moment and Phil took advantage of it, biting down on the meaty flesh of his palm and bringing her booted heel down on his toes. He jerked back instinctively and she twisted, breaking his hold and freeing herself from his clutches. 
 
“Gods’ blood,” he cursed and she could see he was the Imperial guard from earlier, the one Rogers had called Rumlow. 
 
“Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double,” she said, watching him closely as she moved further away. “Tell me who you’re working for and I'll triple it.” 
 
Rumlow barked a deep laugh. “Ain’t enough money in the world to clear my debt, Your Majesty. This is a done deal. You die, there’s no heir, and my secrets don’t get out.” 
 
He lunged; Phil dodged around the table and managed to stay out of reach. 
 
“Son of a bitch.” Garrett grabbed a pillow from one of the chairs and whacked Rumlow in the back of the head. 
 
“Drunken ass, if they didn’t want you alive, I’d have killed you for free,” Rumlow sneered. “And how the hell are you even awake? There’s enough sleeping draught in that wine to put you both out for days.” 
 
A shout came from outside; metal clanged against metal and Rumlow flinched. 
 
“Fucking Rogers,” Rumlow muttered under his breath. “This was supposed to be an easy job.” 
 
Phil saw him tense, knew he was coming for her again, and took the chance to reach for the fork left on the table. Her fingers closed around the smooth hilt just as Rumlow circled her wrist and yanked her towards him. Years of training kicked in and she bent her knees, changing the trajectory so she fell to the side instead of into the dagger’s point he was thrusting at her. The shift in her weight dragged him forward; he turned his torso, trying to regain his footing. 
 
“Leave her alone,” Garrett shouted as he grabbed Rumlow’s arm, pulling him in the opposite direction. 
 
The opening was there and she took it, swinging her arm to gain momentum before sinking the fork into the side of his neck. His eyes widened as blood spurted; stumbling back, his hands rose and latched onto the silver hilt. 
 
“Fucking bitch. I’m gonna …” 
 
The door burst open and Steve Rogers entered, sword drawn, his white shirt untied and splattered with red. 
 
“Rumlow!” He all but growled, storming into the room. 
 
“You’re such an idiot, Rogers.” Rumlow started laughing, an eerie sound as red bubbles flecked along his lips. “All holier than thou, believing you’re doing good in the world. You can’t save her; if I fail, there are so many others lined up to take my place. Anywhere she goes, they’ll find her.” He wavered, coughed bright red spittle, then gave a bloody grin. “You won’t know who to trust.” 
 
He lashed out, jumping at Phil; she tried to evade, but caught her heel on a chair leg. The dagger came towards her and she threw up her arms to ward against the blow. Hands pushed her out of the way and she heard the sickening sound of metal plunging into flesh. She was dragged to the floor, weight pinning her down; she couldn’t draw a deep breath, her lungs refusing to expand. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears and she started to gasp, shallow little inhales. Wiggling her hands to get a better purchase, she tried to move the bodies off but they were too heavy. Warm drops of something wet and sticky hit her cheek and a wave of unease rose, threatening to swamp her senses. 
 
“Phil!” 
 
The voice sounded distant but grew closer; she struggled more, shoving harder. Suddenly everything shifted and she dragged in as much air as she could. Warm hands gripped her shoulders and helped her sit up as she tried to calm her racing heart. 
 
“Hey, hey, it’s fine, it’s me.” Clint’s hands moved to cradle her face. “Are you alright?” 
 
Words jammed in her tight throat, unable to get out. 
 
“Phil.” He tilted her chin up and his blue-grey eyes met hers. “Where are you hurt?”
 
A small cut was bleeding near his hairline; a large red spot covered one cheek where a fist had connected. She raised her hand, touched it gently, then saw the blood covering her fingers. 
 
“I …” She shook her head to clear it. “It’s not mine, it’s …” 
 
She looked to the side and saw Rumlow’s body, his lifeless eyes open and staring at the ceiling, fork still embedded in his throat. 
 
“Bastard was going to kill you.” Clint stroked her chin. “Mel will be proud of you, using whatever was handy. Good girl.” 
 
For a moment, Phil thought Clint was going to close the hair’s breadth distance, that she’d finally know if his lips tasted the same in real life as they did in her dreams … but he slowly pulled away instead, glancing over to Captain Rogers.
 
“He’s right, Your Majesty. You did what you had to,” Rogers said. “Rumlow is … was … a highly trained fighter. He wouldn’t have stopped until he finished the job.”  
 
“You jumped in front of me.” The urgency of the situation flooded back and Phil turned to look at him. “He stabbed you.” 
 
“It’s nothing.” Rogers had one hand pressed against his side, a growing stain beneath his fingers. “I don’t understand, honestly. We’ve worked together for years; Rumlow was a good soldier. Why would he do this?” 
 
Clint helped Phil up, a guiding hand on her back as she stood, then offered the same for Rogers who winced and favored his left side. 
 
“No telling what he was into,” Clint said, “or who he was working for.”

“He said something about not wanting his secrets to come out.” She let the memory play out in her head. “He was going to kill me so there wouldn’t be an heir, and he suggested there were others who’d try.” 
 
“Yeah, I got that part,” Rogers leaned against the table, “when three of my own men tried to kill me.” 
 
“Our men?” Phil looked at Clint. “Are they …?” 
 
“They got two before we even realized what was happening. The others are outside, cleaning up and checking the perimeter,” he told her. 
 
“He was in deep to one of the syndicates.” Garrett spoke up from where he was draped over the back of a chair, his words slurred and uneven. “The tattoo on his wrist, it’s a key. A closed club. Perverted fucker.” 
 
“We’re clear.” Natasha came through the door, daggers drawn and her skirt tucked up in her belt. Glancing at Rumlow’s body, she gave Phil a long look and then a decisive nod; Phil got the clear sense Natasha was proud of her. “Did he talk before he went down?” 
 
“He’s got a key mark,” Clint told her. “Working for one of the ‘keep Garrett the heir’ factions.”
 
“That doesn’t narrow things down much,” she replied. “So what’s the plan? Return to the palace?” 
 
“No,” Phil said. “That negates the contract and we’ll have to start all over again, assuming the Emperor even agrees.”
 
“You’ll be safer there,” Clint argued. “Melinda and Trip can …” 
 
“Lock me in my room? Keep anyone from seeing me?” She shook her head. “That won’t stop them and who knows how many others will die trying to protect me.” 
 
“She’s right.” Steve looked as surprised as Phil to be agreeing with her. “Rumlow said there were others; we don’t know who we can trust.” 
 
“Nobody.” Garrett rolled over. “Everyone has their price, even the most trusted of friends and allies. Someone will sell you out.” 
 
“Including you?” Phil asked. 
 
“Especially me. They’ve got my nuts. In a vise. No way out. And they like to squeeze.” He chuckled, dark and low. “I know I’m the villain of this piece, Phil.”
 
“So …” Clint’s hand slipped around her elbow again and Phil eased back into the warmth of the touch.“Palace is out. Stay here? Rogers, can we hold this location, keep her safe?” 
 
“Not without more men and I don’t know who …” He let out a groan as he tried to move, sagging back with a grimace of pain. 
 
“Let me see,” Phil ordered, stepping closer, careful to skirt the puddle of blood near Rumlow’s body. 
 
“I’m fine,” Rogers insisted. 
 
“Steve.” Phil softened her voice. “Let me see.” 
 
He dropped his hand and she peeled back the linen shirt, soaked edges clinging to the skin. The deep puncture wound was red and weepy, seeping blood. But it was the black that stained the ragged tear and was spreading in spider web veins that made her gasp. 
 
“A poisoned blade,” she murmured. 
 
“Nat?” Clint called. The red-head looked closely over Phil’s shoulder and shook her head.
 
“Probably a mixture,” she said, “and it’s spreading. We’ve got a few hours. Maybe.” 
 
“Alright. First priority, we get Rogers to a healer.” She waved to Natasha. “There are bandages and some other medicines in the bathing room, the bottom drawer.”  The other woman darted down the hallway. “Jemma’s too far away, Oro’s on a birthing up in the mountains, the palace is out, and I don’t know who else to trust. I’m open to ideas.” 
 
“I might know someone.” Rogers hissed as Phil tugged his shirt out of his pants and helped him take it off. She tried not to get distracted by the very broad, very muscular chest that was revealed. 
 
“Might know or do know?” Phil handed the shirt to Clint. “Wrap the dagger up in this.” 
 
“Do know, just not sure of my welcome,” Rogers replied. “He’s not far, maybe an hour’s ride towards the coast.” 
 
“Here.” Natasha was back and handed her a length of cloth and some small scissors. 
 
“Bring me that decanter of whiskey; I need to sterilize the wound, and that will have to do.” Once she had the bottle in hand, she took out the stopper and tipped it over, pouring a stream of the brown liquid over the wound. 
 
“Gods’ blood,” Rogers cursed. “Could have warmed it up a little.” 
 
“Could have,” Phil agreed. “But we don’t have time for niceties.” 
 
She made short work of bandaging the area, winding the binding tight, mind working the problem as she did. “Clint, get the horses ready; we need to leave as soon as possible. I’ll have to get a message to Melinda. She’ll need to know to keep the illusion that I’m still here.”
 
“On it,” Clint said, heading towards the door. 
 
“I’ll go,” Natasha offered. “To the palace. Better to tell them in person. Then I’ll catch up with you.” 
 
“Good.” She pulled a packet out of the small medicine case and handed it to Natasha. “Mix this with some whiskey for Rogers to drink; it will take the edge off of the pain. Avoid the claret; Rumlow spiked it with a sleeping draught.” 
 
Rogers sat up straight and his breathing hitched. “I’ll talk to the guards …”
 
“Don’t overdo it. The more you push, the faster the poison will spread.” 
 
That covered almost everything; just one last loose end. 
 
“Garrett …” 
 
“Wha?” He blinked his eyes open. “Too sleepy. Can’t sit a horse. Gonna stay here, walk around, eat the food. Decoy.”

“You’ll be in danger,” Rogers warned. 
 
“Maybe the baby takes, then it doesn’t matter. Besides, everyone dies.” His eyes slid closed again. 
 
“He has a point; he’ll only slow us down like this,” Natasha said. “It’ll take hours to sleep it off.”
 
“I was supposed to drink it too.” Phil shivered; if she had she’d be dead. “Alright, we leave him, but have the guards keep a close watch.” 
 
She ignored the fluttering in her gut, labeling it anxiety rather than a warning of more danger to come. 
 
 
 
“Not much further,” Rogers said. “Trail splits at the bottom of this incline by some juniper bushes.” 
 
Clint nudged Lucky closer, concerned about the man’s ability to stay upright in the saddle. His face was pale, hair plastered to his head with sweat. He had to be in a lot of pain from the horse’s rocking gait and the spreading of the poison. Somehow he’d managed to not only stay conscious the whole ride, but he’d led the way, insisting on taking smaller trails to avoid the main roads. The man had a serious set of balls, Clint would give him that. 
 
A glance at Phil told him she was still with them; he was concerned about her slipping into a state of shock once the reality of what had happened hit her. The sight of the guard lunging at her, sharp dagger in his hand, was burned in Clint’s memory along with the sheer panic that had overtaken him as he saw her go down under the bulk of Rogers and Rumlow. Of those frantic seconds, he remembered the short sharp gasps and the tiny sound of distress in the back of her throat as he freed her. The dazed look in her eyes, the blood on her face and hands -- Gods above but he almost lost control, the urge to lean in and kiss her had been so overwhelming. Her soft skin under his fingers, the way she stroked his cheek -- he’d forgotten for two breaths that she wasn’t his to comfort and care for. Then she pulled herself together like the magnificently strong woman she was and began making decisions and issuing orders, taking charge of the situation. 
 
Still, he worried. For all her training and skills, she’d never taken a life and that would weigh heavily on her. He’d meant what he’d told her, that she had done the right thing, but he knew her, knew she’d question herself once she had a moment to stop and think. It was probably Rogers’ condition and the winding trail under an almost fool moon that was keeping her mind from dwelling on it too much. They’d talked little as they made their way south towards Starkridge; after they’d crossed the border, he skirted one of the small hill towns then led them towards the inland sea. 
 
“Here.” Rogers reigned in his horse and pointed between two trees. He weaved in his seat, head drooping as he almost dropped the reins. 
 
“Whoa there.” Clint caught him as he started to slide off. “Come on, man, you can make a few more minutes.” 
 
“Yeah, I can …” He forced his eyes open. “This way.”
 
Clint stayed close as Rogers sent his horse down the small side path. Glancing back, he motioned Phil to precede him, not wanting to leave her unprotected. 
 
“So should we worry about waking this guy up in the middle of the night?” Clint asked, mostly to try and keep Rogers from passing out. He’d been particularly tight-lipped about who the healer was, just that he would help them. “Is he the type to have traps set?” 
 
“Nah, everyone from the town comes here. He’s too damn trusting,” Rogers answered.
 
“That’s usually a good thing,” Phil spoke up. “Especially for a healer.” 
 
“He’s a good man.” Something haunted the words beyond the exhaustion and pain as Rogers hands gripped the reins, his fingers clenched around the leather. “They both deserved better than what they got.” 
 
There was a story there, Clint was sure, but it was more important to keep Rogers in his saddle. Phil exchanged a worried look, her concern just as evident. 
 
“Maybe you should let one of us lead …” Phil broke off when a tingle traveled up Clint’s legs, the tell-tale sign of crossing magical wards. 
 
Just then they entered a clearing where a cottage made of river stone with a thatched roof sat near a clear running stream and a stable built into the side of the hill. Flowering vines crawled up the corner of the cottage closest to the forest; a big oak spread its branches, sheltering the house under its leaves. 
 
Before they even pulled their horses to a halt, the red door was opening; out came a man wrapped in a robe, a glowing lantern raised by his head, creating a halo around his close cropped hair. He looked at Clint, raised his eyebrows when his gaze landed on Phil, then sighed loudly when he saw Rogers.
 
“Steve. You don’t visit then you come dragging trouble with you. Let me guess,” he drawled, a hint of an accent from somewhere in the Outer Isles. “Someone’s trying to kill you and you don't know where else to go.” 
 
“Sam. I’m sorry but …”  
 
He slumped then listed to the left; before Clint could get off his horse, Sam was there, catching Rogers and easing him to the ground. 
 
“What the hell?” Sam asked. 
 
“He was stabbed by a poisoned blade,” Phil said.
 
“Of course he was.” He sighed again. “Help me get him in the house.” 
 
Clint took the left side, sliding Steve’s arm around his shoulders while Sam took the right. The man was heavy, all muscle, and Clint could feel the tremors running through him as the poison worked its way into his system. 
 
“Steve?” Another man stood in the open doorway; his dark hair was loose around his shoulders, his unbuttoned shirt hanging down over his pants, and his feet bare. He stepped aside to let them in. “What’s the dumb ass done now?” 
 
“I should …” Clint glanced back at where Phil was standing; she’d gathered the horse's reins in her hands. 
 
“Got to … protect …” Steve struggled against their hold. 
 
The dark-haired man looked over Clint’s shoulder. “Damn, Steve. Always has to be right in the middle of it. Here,” he addressed Phil. “I’ll take the horses to the stable. Come on in and make yourself at home.” 
 
The inside was even more cozy than Clint expected. The floor was smooth wooden planks covered with thick rugs. Warm coals were banked in the big fireplace, comfortable chairs angled in front of it. An archway led to the kitchen area with a brick oven and big hand hewn table. Bookcases covered one wall, filled with tomes and scrolls and knicknacks of all kinds. Of the other three doorways, only one was open and Clint could see a big bed, sheets messy and covers tossed back. 
 
“Over here.” Sam led them to one of the closed doors and, once through, they eased Steve down onto the small pallet placed against the wall and surrounded by shelves filled with herbs and flowers and all kinds of healing ingredients. “Do you know what kind of poison it was?” 
 
“No,” Phil answered, “but we have the dagger and the bottle the poison came from.” 
 
“We do?” Clint asked, surprised. “I know we picked up the dagger but …” 
 
“I searched his pockets while you were saddling the horses.” She dug through her satchel and pulled out the wrapped weapon and a small green bottle. 
 
“Put them there.” Sam nodded towards a small worktable. “Let’s get a look at what we’re dealing with first, then I can test the residue.”
 
He pulled back Steve’s jacket; the black veins had spread out from under the bandage and were crawling up to Rogers’ armpit and halfway around his waist. Peeling away the fabric, Clint grimaced as he saw the festered wound surrounded by red and purple splotches. 
 
“Just the one puncture wound?” Sam asked, pressing around the edges; Steve made pained noises with each touch. 
 
“Yes,” Phil answered, looking over Sam’s shoulder. “I’d say it’s belladonna, but that would be much more fast-acting.” 
 
“Steve has a very strong constitution.” Sam went to the shelves and began pulling bottles and boxes, sitting them on the table. “His body can fight off infections most people can’t.” In a small bowl, he mixed two powders together, added some dried herbs, and started crushing them together. “There’s a water pitcher in the kitchen; can you fill it from the cistern for me? And some clean rags from the drawer?” 
 
Glad of something to do, Clint found the pitcher, filled it, then began opening drawers.
 
“Clean cloth?” The dark-haired man came in the back door and dropped their bags on the floor. “I'll get it.”
 
“... get him to drink it,” Sam was saying as they came in. “It’s a general anti-toxin and will give us time to identify the exact poison.” 
 
“Sam.” Steve’s eyes were barely open, but his voice carried. “You don’t …” 
 
“Don’t have to worry about your dumb ass? Someone’s got to because you don’t have the self-preservation the gods gave a turnip.” Sam poured some water into a bowl and handed it to the other man. “Now Bucky’s going to clean the wound, and you’re gonna take your medicine. Once you’re better, you’re gonna tell us why you showed up at our door with the Queen of Coulfell.”
 
As soon as the dark-haired man got his first close look at Steve’s wound, his face went stony. Clint took a step back at the flicker of anger he saw in the man’s eyes. 
 
“Who did this?” he demanded.
 
“One of his guard unit,” Clint told him. “Named Rumlow.” 
 
“That depraved blood sack?” The temperature in the room seemed to drop. “Where is the lying bastard?” 
 
“Dead.” Phil straightened her shoulders and stared him down. “I killed him.” 
 
Bucky Barnes, a man presumed dead but obviously alive -- because that’s who he had to be -- turned his icy stare on Phil, nodded once, and picked up a rag to dip in the water. “Good. I hope he suffered; he deserved it.” 
 
Clint had just met the man, but he decided then and there, they were going to be friends.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

You lose friends to both

death and unusually lively

withdrawal, as well as give

some up, as anticipated,

to misunderstanding

Cindy Juyong Ok,
“Surviving Inklings”

Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders and dragged on his eyelids, but thoughts kept churning in Clint’s brain. Sitting in a chair before the fireplace, he’d watched Sam bustle between the kitchen and the healing room, soaking blood stained clothes in a wooden tub and safely disposing of dirty rags.  He’d been quick and efficient, identifying the poison as a variant of bloodshood mixed with a more exotic one from the Outer Rim. The worst part had been sanitizing the wound; Clint had suffered slices and cuts and broken bones, but he had to leave the room to get fresh air when they burned out the residue. Phil had stayed, handing Sam the needed components and replacing dirty rags with fresh ones. The antidote was anticlimactic; Sam packed the puncture with a poultice, made Rogers drink a pretty foul smelling cup of tea, and let him go to sleep. 
 
Across from him, Phil was curled in the other seat, her knees bent and toes tucked under her, head leaning against the high back. Eyes closed, she was breathing deep and even, sleep having finally overcome even her stubborn will to stay awake. Firelight flickered over her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek and her dark lashes. Strands of hair fell free, curling at the ends as they slipped out of the tie at the nape of her neck. She’d switched her bloody shirt and vest for a linen shirt Bucky had loaned her; it fell down to her knees and engulfed her small frame, but she’d put her belt around it and tightened it at the waist.  Clint was mesmerized by the loosely tied vee at the neck; the fabric had shifted as she slept, revealing the soft line of her collarbone and just a hint of the swell of one breast. He watched the rise and fall, a reminder she was alive, and couldn’t help but remember her face in his hands, the pink of her parted lips, and the deep brown of her eyes. 
 
A sudden thrum was followed by a quiet chime. 
 
“Someone’s coming,” Sam said. 
 
“Might be our friend.” Clint did a quick calculation of the time as he stood.
 
“I’ve got it.” Bucky came out of the bedroom and joined Clint by the door. “Steve’s stirring; might need a sleeping draught to keep him from getting out of bed.” 
 
She was riding into the clearing by the time they got outside, and Clint could read the exhaustion in how she sat her saddle. They’d both been running on little sleep, trying to gather as much information as possible. Dropping the news on Melinda about the attempt on Phil couldn’t have been easy; she hadn’t had time to build trust with either her or Trip, but Clint was glad she’d let him stay with Phil. 
 
“Hey, Nat.” He held the reins as she dismounted. 
 
“How’s Rogers?” She asked as she slung her saddle bags over her shoulder. “Did you get here in time?” 
 
“Sleeping. Wilson found the antidote and he’s going to be fine.”
 
Two steps toward the cottage and she froze in place, eyes locked on the other man standing by the door.
 
“James.” 
 
Bucky dropped his arms and kept his hands in clear view. 
 
“Natalia.” 
 
A memory rose of one of the few times Natasha had talked about the Red Room, a story about a man who’d trained with her and treated her kindly before he’d disappeared. James. That had been his name. 
 
“That’s Bucky Barnes.” Clint broke the silence. “As in ‘fell off the Durnstran Bridge during the final battle of the Continental War, best friend of Steve Rogers’ Bucky Barnes.” 
 
She didn’t take her eyes off Bucky, but the tension in her shoulders eased just a fraction. “Well, that makes sense. You showed up not long after the war was over.” 
 
“They sent me to a lot of places.” He shifted to the left, opening a clear line of sight to the doorway. “Didn’t have much of a choice.” 
 
“I thought they’d killed you,” she said. Only because Clint knew he so well could he hear the slightest tremor in her voice.
 
 “Sometimes I wished they had.” From the emotion that darted across Bucky’s eyes, he heard it too. “Then Steve found me; been here with Sam, ever since, learning how to be human again.” 
 
“I understand that.” Her eyes flicked to Clint. ”Some days are better than others, but having someone you can trust makes it better.”  
 
“Come on in,” Bucky invited. “Sam’ll want to meet you; I’ve told him stories.” 
 
“I’ll take care of Alexei,” Clint told her. “Want to check on Lucky and Lola anyway.” 
 
Taking the horse around to the stable, Clint made short work of taking off the saddle and brushing his coat; when he was finished, he put Alexei in with Lucky and shifted Lola in with Steve’s Peggy. Barnes and Wilson’s horses were already doubled up in the third stall. Entering the house through the back door, he found Phil awake and sipping a cup of tea; Natasha had taken his seat, and Sam was pulling chairs from the kitchen for everyone to sit.  
 
“Whiskey? Wine? Tea?” Sam offered. 
 
“Whiskey’s good.” He settled in the seat closest to Phil and ignored Natasha’s look. 
 
“Are you hungry, Your Majesty? We’ve got some sweet rolls I made yesterday,” Sam asked as he poured Clint’s drink and gave it to him.
 
“Um, I ate the last one while you were washing dishes,” Bucky said. “I think there’s some of that fresh goat cheese spread and the brown bread.” 
 
“Did you finish off the honey too?” Sam smiled and there was a softness about his eyes as he looked at Bucky. 
 
“It was starting to crystalize,” Bucky explained. “There’s definitely some blackberry compote though.” 
 
“I’m fine. Clint? Natasha?” Phil turned the question to them. “ And, please, call me Phil. We’ve come to you for help; no need to stand on decorum here.”
 
“Bread and jam sounds good,” Clint said. “Been a long day and there’s plenty more to come.”
 
“Yeah, about that …” Sam nudged Bucky before he headed back into the kitchen. 
 
“Sam and I, we served together with Steve during the war,” Bucky said, taking the hint. “I’ve known him since we were kids; been keeping him out of trouble his whole life -- until the last few years, that is. Kind of ingrained to take care of him for both of us, so we’d like to know what he’s gotten himself into this time.” 
 
“I mean, we can guess some of it,” Sam said as he cut slices of bread and arranged them on a plate. “Mariton is buzzing with the news of you probably marrying the Emperor’s nephew; Wunagan would send Steve’s troop out to protect a future heir. I imagine Rhodes is with him.” 
 
“Rhodey is second-in-command,” Phil answered. “And it’s a moon fasting, not a marriage; the contract was signed today … or yesterday depending upon the time. We were at my family’s lodge when the attack happened.” 
 
“Ah. That’s smart.” Sam added two small pots and dipped a spoon in each. “Garrett’s tied in with the syndicates pretty heavily, but you probably know that already.” 
 
“Rumlow was deep in the Syballine family’s pocket,” Bucky said. “Had a taste for girls, the younger, the better, would disappear out on the Rim whenever he had time off.  Kept his nose clean when he was on duty so Steve never saw how far the rot went.” 
 
“Most of ‘em -- families, syndicates -- wouldn’t want a new heir.” Sam carried the platter over and placed it on the small table. 
 
“That’s what Rumlow said.” Despite turning down the food, Phil immediately began slathering a slice with the creamy cheese. “He hinted there were assassins hidden everywhere just before Steve got between me and the pointy end of a poisoned dagger.” 
 
“That’s Steve in a nutshell,” Bucky said. “And he’ll take it personally that he didn’t see Rumlow coming.” 
 
“Or the three others of his guard who were in on it,” Clint added, passing Phil the compote. “We couldn’t go back to the palace -- didn’t know how many others were waiting for their opportunity -- so Steve brought us here.” 
 
“He wasn’t sure of his welcome.” Natasha had a larger piece and was covering it with the tangy cheese spread. “And I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to find a dead man and an Imperial Wing Guard.” 
 
“The Wing Guard are all dead. They died in the final push at Durnstran Bridge.” Phil’s gaze lasered in on Sam. “At least that’s what historians report.” 
 
“Officially? That’s true.” Sam sat down on the arm of Bucky’s chair and leaned against him. “After Buck fell, I was done with the whole mess of lies, the politics and cold-blooded decisions that got good men killed. I walked away and never looked back; the only regret was leaving Steve behind. His sense of duty to the throne was just too strong; we had a few words and a difference of opinion about whose fault it was that Bucky was gone.” 
 
“Your wings were destroyed and you were surrounded by Schmidt’s men; it was me or you, Sam, and I told Steve I’d never forgive him if he didn’t go get you first,” Bucky insisted. “Thought I could hold on until he got back.” 
 
“Yeah, well, you’re both self-sacrificing idiots.” Sam’s arm slipped along Bucky’s shoulders, his fingers curling around his arm. “Then we got you back and he blamed himself for what happened to you while you were a captive.” 
 
If Clint hadn’t already been sure the two men were lovers, the way Bucky leaned into Sam, his eyes closing for a moment as he rested against the other man’s chest, made their connection plain. He wondered if they’d been together before the battle, thought about Bucky hanging off the bridge watching Sam fighting for his life, and Sam, trying to survive, seeing Bucky dangling over the edge. And Steve caught in the middle, having to choose which one to save.
 
“You were one of Schmidt’s prisoners,” Phil said. 
 
“That explains the Red Room’s interest; they allowed Zola to test some of his bastardized blood warrior spells on us too.” Natasha sipped at her wine, her slice almost half-gone. 
 
“Blood warriors? The Church and the Collegium outlawed that research years before Durnstran; I didn’t think Zola ever got his components to work,” Phil told her. 
 
“Outlawed it?” Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s revisionist history at its best. There were mages and scholars working on perfecting the spell the whole time; knew a number of guys who volunteered for testing.” 
 
“Wait. You’re saying they actually made it work?” Clint asked. 
 
“They tried; a lot of ‘em died, some went crazy, a few became too violent. That’s why they told everyone they made it forbidden knowledge; too many tales making the rounds about men who were little more than animals, who lost their free will and killed indiscrimentally. Far as I know, only one mage got close and that’s because he started with the idea that the man chosen was the most important factor. You want to make someone stronger, faster, heal quicker, live longer, they also need to have intelligence and honor and compassion,” Sam answered. 
 
“A strong constitution?” Phil raised that one eyebrow that meant she’d figured something out. “A sense of duty and … thoroughness?” 
 
“Thorough.” Sam chuckled. “That’s a nice word for Steve’s obsessive need to check every detail.” 
 
“Rogers is a blood warrior,” Clint stated, rolling the idea in his head to see how neatly it fit. “And the rest …” 
 
“The Imperial ones? Dead. Changing a person’s foundational makeup, it turns out, introduces all sorts of diseases and impurities of the blood,” Sam said. 
 
“Pretty sure, I’m the only one of Zola’s bastards that survived,” Bucky added. “If you can call being an attack dog at their beck and call surviving. If Sam and Steve hadn’t saved me, I would have been put down by now. That’s what they did when you weren’t useful anymore.” 
 
“Gods’ blood, that’s …” Clint shook his head, at a loss for words to express his revulsion. 
 
“So what you’re saying is that the Church and the Collegium have been working on a spell that can mutate  a person’s blood.” Phil had that look in her eye, the one that said she’d sunk her teeth into something and was about to worry it until she got answers. “The same Church that assured me they didn’t have any spells that could twist a family’s blood and kill them all.” 
 
“Oh.” Sam’s eyes widened. “Oh. I hadn’t made the connection. Yeah, I mean … wow. Okay. If you break it down into its parts, then that’s a vital component. Turning the blood deadly, you’d just have to know what elements to change.” 
 
“It’d be so much easier to make it go wrong than right,” Natasha added. “Poisoning is faster than healing.” 
 
“So, yeah, that part of the spell could be feasible -- which leaves how to get the spell to all the intended victims. I heard it was like a smoky mist?” Sam asked. 
 
Phil nodded. 
 
“There was that one mage, worked for General Phillips for a while, strange little fella, short and greasy? Tried turning a sleep spell into a cloud at Tillstai. Remember?” Bucky looked at Sam. 
 
“Smelled like fish all the time? Jacques or Jerald or something like that?” Sam scrunched his nose as he thought. “Swore he could control it but it just sank to the ground and put Phillips’ aide to sleep?” 
 
“Yeah, that’s the one. Wonder what happened to him?” Bucky mused. 
 
“You think we could find him? Maybe he’s gotten better at it?” Clint asked. 
 
“And we find out who is still working on mutating bloodlines in the Church or the University,” Phil said. “Then see what the two have in common.” 
  
Sunlight filtered through the window, falling in rectangles across the two small beds in the little room as Phil slowly came awake. It took a few breaths before she remembered where she was and what had happened; turning her head, she saw Natasha, blanket thrown over her and her red hair spread over the pillow. After their conversation had petered out last night, the bread eaten and the little pots licked clean, Sam had shown her to the guest room, and she’d thought she was too wound up to sleep. By the time Natasha won the argument of who would take the bed closest to the window, Clint relegated to the chairs in the main room, Phil had laid down, her eyes closed, and she was gone. She’d dreamed, a confusing set of images that woke her twice with a gasp, but exhaustion dragged her back down into the blessed darkness of slumber.
 
It was hard to believe it hadn’t even been a full day since Rogers had arrived at the palace; so much had happened in such a short span of time. She’d met two of her heroes, discovered they had flaws like everyone else, came close to dying, and had killed a man in the process of surviving. She’d left her country, running away from the uncertainty of who to trust, and had stumbled across a possible clue to understanding the spell that ended her family. Believing the Church was hiding information wasn’t hard; Bishop Blake was beholden to the Church fathers not the throne of Coulfell and he had never let her father forget that. They already had spells that traced bloodlines; if they could manipulate the blood itself, Phil hesitated to think what else they could do. All the sermons about pure lineage and their interest in children from royal unions suddenly took on a more sinister meaning.
 
Which made her think about Garrett being left behind to fend for himself -- shouldn’t she feel guilty about it? -- and how he believed they’d consummated their fasting.  Maybe she could use that; it wouldn’t stop the factions that didn’t want a new heir, but the ones who did might be willing to provide support and aid. There were nobility out there who would make good advisors. Lord Charles Xavier of Westchester,  for one. King Reed of Richard’s Quad. He was a bit of an arrogant ass, but mostly because he was a brilliant artificer. Wizard Stephen and the Prime Monk Wong of the Collegium’s Sanctorum. Though his land was far away,  King T’Chakka had been a friend of her father’s; Prince T’challa was a friend. Assemble enough of them and maybe she could build a strong base to put the syndicates and bad operators on notice. 
 
Of course, to do that, she’d have to actually be pregnant and returning to the lodge or the palace didn’t seem to be an option. The thought flitted through her mind that there were other possible fathers, some easier to reach. The problem was the Emperor would ask for a lineage spell. With Garrett the nephew of the Emperor, there would be no faking that connection; her Imperial blood was so dissoluted that it wouldn’t be enough alone. She’d need someone with a closer tie, someone of the Wunagan line. But what was she supposed to do? Ask someone she’s met once or twice to father a child with her? Would they keep it quiet or become a liability, blackmailing her to maintain the secret? And what kind of person would she be if she knowingly lied about her child’s family history? 
 
Her stomach churned as some of the possible candidates floated to the surface, her logical mind already building a list of names. Another practical stranger given permission to touch and paw and breathe on her; first Grant, then Garrett, now someone else? She knew that people enjoyed sex; Melinda had a lover and was always smiling and satisfied after they spent time together. Victoria waxed poetic about how women gave the best orgasms, but Phil had never slept with anyone she truly desired. Oh, she could pleasure herself and did, but she’d never known the excitement of foreplay or teasing of a tongue on her nipple or scrape of a beard on her inner thigh. 
 
A clatter came from the other side of the closed door; someone was awake and in the kitchen. Swinging her legs over and sitting up, she dug into her pack and found her hairbrush. She’d been so sleepy she’d gone to bed with her hair still tied back and now it was a tangled mess. Once the snarls were smooth, she did a quick single braid, letting it fall down her back. The borrowed shirt was wrinkled from sleeping in it,  so she wrapped a belt around her waist, then slipped on her pants and her feet into her boots. She hoped that the blood had come out of last night’s clothes. She’d only grabbed one clean shirt and a handful of underwear and stockings before they left. 
 
“Are you getting up?” Natasha asked, pushing up on her elbow. 
 
“Going to see if I can find a cup of tea,” she replied. 
 
“Tell Wilson to walk with you if you go out of the house.” 
 
She nodded before she rose and went out into the main room, not surprised to see it was Sam puttering in the kitchen. But Clint wasn’t in the chair or anywhere in her line of sight. 
 
“Good morning,” Sam greeted her. “I’ve got coffee or tea.” 
 
“Tea, please,” she answered. “Where’s Clint? I thought he was sleeping out here.” 
 
“Bucky finally talked Barton into going to bed after he promised to walk the perimeter and showed him the wards. There’s a room behind the stable that I use when I need to isolate patients; he’s out there.”  Sam picked up a mug and took down a tin from a shelf; the dried mixture he spooned up smelled of vanilla and spices. The teapot was sitting on a rock on the lip of the oven; he poured hot water over the strainer and left the cup to steep.  “There's maple porridge warming on the stove, if you like. It’s simple, but filling.” 
 
“I’d love a bowl but first, I need the privy.” She sniffed the fragrance rising from the browning water. 
 
“It’s out back; here, let me walk you.” 
 
It seemed everyone was in tune, not letting her be alone for even a short journey to the wooden stall and back. There was water and a bowl on the counter by the door as they came in; she washed her hands then took the chair Sam held out to sit at the table. When the bowl appeared in front of her, her stomach rumbled; he put out some honey, raisins, blueberries, and brown sugar as options to add on top.  Once she’d loaded up the cooked oats, she took a bite and hummed around her spoon as she swallowed. Sometimes the simplest things were the best. 
 
“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” she said after a long sip of tea. “About bloodline spells and how they work.” 
 
“Sure.” Sam went back to the counter where he’d been working and pulled a checkered cloth off a risen round of dough. “I use the basic ones often, but I don’t have a lot of experience with the more specialized ones.” 
 
“There are different types?” She hadn’t known that; the only ones she’d seen were the kind the Bishop used to verify the nobility of a child. 
 
“Three big ones: parentage, healthline, and lineages.” He sprinkled flour over the work surface and began to knead, punching down the air and folding the dough over and over on itself. “Lineage is the simplest; it’s the ‘do they belong to this family’ spell. You need a primogenitor, someone higher up in the family hierarchy to test against. Any healer or priest can do that one with a high percentage of certainly. A lot of healing potions are this kind; targets them specifically to the person. Healthlines are looking for illnesses of the blood; most healers know how to do it, but getting a specific answer can be more difficult. Takes some real training to know the difference between maladies. A really talented caster can also combine it with a lineage spell to look for diseases that run in families. Now, parentage, that’s the hardest. Need actual blood from the mother and father and the baby, and even then it’s wrong a good fifty percent of the time.” 
 
“Wouldn’t that be the easiest.” Phil said, “since you have a sample to work from?” 
 
“You’d think.” Sam used his knuckles to work the dough and a puff of flour flew up, leaving spots on his cheek. “But there’s so many variables and all these fiddly components that a lot of the results are tainted by the caster. And even if you get a good reading, close ties can confuse things. The spell can’t tell the difference between siblings and first cousins; sometimes it confuses second and thirds too. Think about how much mixing goes on in the noble lines; it’s damn hard to say with any certainty. Most people just take the lineage spell instead.” 
 
She ate another spoonful, thinking about all the information Sam had just given her. “So it’s the lineage that tells how close you are to the main line or is it the parentage? The one that tells if you’re a direct descendent or three times twice removed?” 
 
“Lineage does have a gradient, a diluted scale, so to speak, but you won’t know if that’s because intermixed blood through marriage or someone was born on the wrong side of the blanket.  Parentage is unreliable for specificity of person but you know they’re within, say, two or three generations of the persons tested.” 
 
“Huh.” Her earlier thoughts were rearranging as she added new variables. If the Garrett option didn’t work out, how far afield could she go and still get a positive result? 
 
“As long as we’re talking about it, can I ask you a question?” Sam rolled the dough into a smooth ball and put the cloth back over it, leaving it to rise again. “About the spell used on your family.” 
 
“Yes,” she replied. He’d opened his home to them, fed them, shared his story; it was the least she could do. 
 
“From what I’ve heard, it was a targeted lineage spell designed to corrupt the blood of the victims. A blood poison but on a much larger scale.” He tossed the water Phil had used out the back door, poured some more, then washed his hands. “Airborne with an area of effect bigger than the continents and the Rim.” 
 
She nodded and sipped her tea, waiting for the question. 
 
“It’s that last part that’s got me tied up in knots.” He fixed himself a mug of coffee, added some milk and a teaspoon of sugar, then sat down at the table. “The rest sort of makes sense in terms of how it works, but to spread across the known world and touch every person of that bloodline? That’s a scale I’ve never heard of.” 
 
“No one else has either; the Church or the Imperial mages or the scholars.”  She paused. “Well, they say they haven’t heard of a delivery method that broad, but it seems they haven’t told the truth about the other components, so who knows?” 
 
“True,” Sam agreed. “It’s just … I mean … if it was that strong, then why …” 
 
“Why didn’t I die?” She could see where this was heading. 
 
“Look, I’m glad you’re alive and I’m really, really sorry for your loss,” he said. “But a spell that powerful and lethal at those distances?  I’ve heard the theories. There’s so many of them flying around. Most of them are bullshit … pardon my language … because you can’t make an exception from a lineage spell and that one was a blunt hammer, not a sharpened needle. It went three generations … so it can’t be that you’re only part Coulson.” 
 
“When the spell found me, I was helping my friend who was giving birth; my hands were covered in her sacral blood and I was holding the placenta. The Bishop believes that confused it so it passed me over,” she explained. 
 
“Huh.” He rubbed a hand across his face and smeared one of the dots of flour over his cheek. “That’s plausible, but … for external blood to confuse it, that would be a parental spell, which doesn’t make sense because if it was, it would have skipped cousins a couple times removed. It’s like they merged the two types of spells.” He sipped his coffee then shrugged. “Keeps my mind going in circles, but that’s magic for you.” 
 
“Is that coffee I smell?” Rogers stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on the frame. Beneath his open shirt, the black lines were gone, the skin around the bandage looking pink and healthy. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

We are, I am, you are

by cowardice or courage

the one who find our way

back to this scene

carrying a knife, a camera

a book of myths

in which

our names do not appear.

“Diving Into the Wreck” by Adrienne Rich

“
Who are you talking about?” Rogers snatched more pancakes from the platter Sam sat down, beating Bucky to the top three; he had been eating steadily and this was his fourth stack. “Phillips’ aide was named Montgomery of Treels.” 
 
“Not the aide, the artificer, the one who thought he could make a sleep spell into a cloud,” Sam corrected. He put another full platter between Clint and Natasha, both of whom had just joined them. Phil had tried to resist, but she had a weak spot for fluffy pancakes that melted in your mouth. Now her stomach was full and she was sipping another cup of tea while everyone else ate. “Short, brown-haired, full of himself, not cut out for the army, had a big mouth?” 
 
“Greasy,” Bucky added around a mouthful. “Had a thing with that baby-faced infantry guy from Okorida.” 
 
“Oh yeah, him.” Rogers took a long pull of coffee. “Sir Justin. None of his spells or machines ever worked.” 
 
“Justin the Hammered! How could I forget?” Bucky laughed. “He carried a flask of whiskey with him everywhere along with that sachet of lavender he was always sniffing. Was half-drunk most of the time.” 
 
“Complained about his sensitive stomach,” Sam nodded as he took the hot pan to the counter and began cleaning up. “Tried to bring his personal cook along but Phillips gave him that death stare. He was from some noble family that had a title but didn’t have money. Claimed he was best friends with Lord Anthony Stark.” 
 
“Justin d’Marteau?” Phil asked. “I remember the sachet; wrapped up in lace and tied with a red bow. Tony hated him; Justin was older, but behind him in University, made a real nuisance of himself, following Tony around all the time. I didn’t hear he’d joined the war effort; I can’t imagine him in an army camp.” 
 
“Phillips sent him packing after the sleep cloud,” Steve said. “Maybe six months before Durnstran.” 
 
“His mother is still alive, I believe.” Phil tried to remember the nobility rolls she’d had to memorize. “They lived across the Inner Sea on Brenith. He and Aldrich of Killian were thick as thieves for awhile; they had a falling out, but Aldrich might know what he’s up to.” 
 
“Brenith is a two day journey by boat and Killian’s even further,” Clint said after he swallowed a big bite; a drop of sweet syrup hung on the corner of his lip. His tongue darted out to lick it up and Phil quickly looked away. “It’s not like we can just ride up to the door and announce your presence.”
 
“I certainly don’t trust either Justin or Aldrich to not sell me out in a heartbeat.” Phil sighed. “Now if Tony were still with us, he’d be the best person to talk to; Justin had a habit of trying to sneak up on him. Tony hated surprises so he kept an eye out. He’d help without question.” 
 
“Doesn’t sound like the Stark I knew,” Bucky interjected. “My mom worked in the palace. Howard was a heartless bastard and Tony was self-centered and self-absorbed.” 
 
“True,” Phil agreed. “Howard was a terrible father and Maria a distant mother; Tony was brought up to be just like them but, fortunately, he had friends who taught him how to listen to his own instincts.”  
 
She didn’t miss the way Rogers shifted in his seat, his gaze cutting to Bucky then down at his plate. 
 
“Maybe a sea journey is the route to take,” Natasha tossed out, her eyes turning thoughtful. “We know someone with a ship who can be discreet and she happens to be around Piste this time of year.” 
 
“Oh, she’s discreet,” Clint muttered and rolled his eyes. “Not her we have to worry about.”
 
“We can trust her.” Natasha must have kicked Clint under the table because he jumped and glared at her.  
 
“Piste is only an hour from here; we can be there before the late tide,” Phil said. 
 
“We?” Steve tried to ask, but his mouth was full. It wasn’t hard to predict what he was about to say, so Phil ignored him. 
 
“That leaves us with finding out what the Church knows. I’d go to Felix, but he’s still an initiate, plus he’s with his father and I trust Bishop Blake as far as I can throw him. Any ideas?” 
 
“There’s a guy we know,” Sam offered. “Studying to be clergy for a while then switched to the Collegium. He’s practically a hermit, but he was involved in exploring mutations of the blood. Good guy, had some bad breaks, not a fan of the Church anymore.”
 
“Bruce?” Steve cleared his throat. “Last I heard he’d dropped off the map.” 
 
“He’s on Culver Island,” Bucky said. “I tracked him there to see if he could help reverse part of Zola’s spell.”
 
“The triggers? He’s the one who removed them?” Steve asked. 
 
Bucky nodded.
 
“Well, then that’s settled.” Phil pushed back from the table and rose. “We head to Piste, catch this ship captain and set sail. Culver’s closet, so four or five days round trip, at the most. I’ll gather my things and we’ll be ready to go.”
 
“I think you should stay here.” Steve stood too. “This place is defensible and I trust Bucky and Sam to watch out for you, especially if you are,” he hesitated, “with child. Riding is probably …” 
 
“Captain Rogers.” She stalked around the edge of the table, stopped in front of him, balled her hands into fists, and planted them on her waist. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “If you are about to suggest that a pregnant woman is a delicate flower who should sit with her feet up for nine months then I have some very important news for you. Men might have broader chests and thicker arms, but women are even stronger and tolerate pain at a much higher rate. There are mothers who work right up until the babe comes, giving birth in fields and beside the road then getting up and continuing with what they were doing. We can, and do, carry heavy loads, ride a horse, harvest crops, while pregnant.”

“Your Majesty, I …” 
 
“Also, and I believe Sam will back me up on this, one attempt rarely produces a child.” She looked at Sam who didn’t bother to smother his grin. 
 
“I mean, it can happen, thus why I was always warning the soldiers to sheath it before they stab it,” Sam said. 
 
“Ooooh, that’s a good one.” Bucky leaned over and bumped shoulders with Sam.
 
Steve huffed. “I know it doesn’t …” 
 
“The average is something like a year,” Sam continued over Steve’s protest. “Six months if the couple charts cycles; a moon fasting is usually accelerated by a fertility potion,” his eyes cut to Phil, “but even with a potion the chance is 55% after the first month.” 
 
He knew; Phil barely stopped herself from glancing at the clean shirt and vest laying across the back of a chair. The empty phail had been in the pocket when she’d taken it off. 
 
“So,” she picked up the thread immediately, not giving Rogers time to get a breath much less say anything. “Pack and go. That’s the objective. Sam, Bucky, thank you for your hospitality; you’ve been more than kind and welcoming.” 
 
“Any time, Your Majesty.” Sam tilted his head in a small bow. “You are

all

welcome in our home.” 
 
“The point I was trying to make …” Steve plowed ahead. 
 
“Give it up, Stevie,” Bucky said. “She’s right. The safest place is on the move and if a blood warrior and a Widow … and whatever Barton is … can’t protect her, no one can.”
 
“They’ll find this place.” Natasha unfolded herself from her chair. “Wilson and Barnes are known in Meriton; once they discover you were hurt, who else would you go to but your old army buddy who’s a healer?” 
 
“I didn’t … ” Steve sighed. “Damn you were both right; I dragged trouble to your doorstep again. It’s no wonder you’re mad at me.” 
 
“For the last time, Rogers, nobody’s angry.” Sam lightly smacked the back of Steve’s head. “You’re the one carrying old baggage; stop trying to be perfect and just be the good man you are.” 
 
“You really can be an idiot sometimes,” Bucky said. “Let it go; we have.”
 
A moment of internal struggle showed in his blue eyes, then Rogers’ shoulders slumped; turning he caught Wilson in a quick hug. “I don’t deserve you two,” he said quietly. 
 
“Someone’s got to bang some sense into that hard head.” Bucky chuckled. “Now go do your thing and find out whose ass we need to kick.” 
  
“Should have gone with disguises,” Steve said. “Hoods.”
 
Piste was a thriving town of medium size with a harbor deep enough to anchor war ships and galleons. It was one of two ports in Starkridge and it handled the trade from Imperial countries; Feintidou, the other, was even larger, a place where boats brought goods from the Outer Isles and Rim. 
 
“The key isn’t hiding,” Clint explained. “It’s body language. Most people don’t really look at others; you act like you belong there and they accept it.”
 
“I’d recognize us,” he countered. “Sam and Bucky would too.” 
 
Small wagons and stalls lined the edges of the street they were navigating, a sidewalk between them and the buildings that housed shops and taverns. They skirted around a stack of beer kegs that were being unloaded and carried into a boisterous common room of a large inn. It was market day and it seemed like half the countryside had come into town to peruse the wares. 
 
“Guards are trained to notice things; most people aren’t.” Clint waved a hand at the crowds threading through the goods for sale. “See? No one is even looking at us.” 
 
They came to a city square where a large ornate fountain sprayed arcs of clear water that splashed into the basin. As they bore to their right, three men appeared and stepped in front of Phil; in an instant, Steve had put himself between her and them while Clint covered her back, turning his eyes upward and behind to search for other threats. 
 
“Out of the way,” Steve’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword, and he used the vantage of his height to stare down at the men. 
 
“We mean no harm,” the middle one said, and Clint realized they all wore the muted red and gold of Starkridge and were keeping their hands far away from their weapons. “Lord Stane would like to have a word, if he may.”
 
“No.” Steve brooked no argument. “Now let us through.” 
 
“Oh for the gods’ sake, stand down.” The older gentleman stepped out from behind a stall selling leather goods. With greying hair that was cut close and thinning on the top, Obediah Stane looked like any of the wealthy merchants on the street. He wore a white shirt with a burgundy jacket and highly polished black leather boots. “All I want is to say hello.” 
 
With open arms he moved towards Phil, but Steve didn’t give way. Stane tilted his head and gazed up. 
 
“I see you have an Imperial attack dog,” he said in a fake jovial tone that barely hid the sneer behind the words. “The rumors must be true then; my condolences on having to deal with the useless wastrel.” 
 
“Steve.” Phil put a hand on Rogers’ arm; he stepped back but never took his eyes off of the three guards. Then she addressed Stane. “Lord Stane. I’m afraid we're on a schedule; if you want to chat, you’ll have to walk with me. I want to be back at the lodge by supper; Cook is making her famous croquettes and they’re best when they’re warm.” 
 
She started moving and Stane had little option but to follow if he wanted to continue the conversation. 
 
“So the moon fasting is done.” Stane was clearly happy about that tidbit of information. “I wouldn’t expect to see you out and about once it began.” 
 
“There’s no stricture against it. Mathelda went shopping every day, spent quite a bit of money on lapis and turquoise, if I remember correctly,” Phil said. “I had a craving this morning for Swindol’s onion bacon jam to go with May’s seeded bread. And since it is market day, I can pick up some spicy pickles from Jonier as well.” 
 
The three guards tried to surround them; Steve gave no space in front, seeming to stretch his broad chest to take up the whole street. The one who tried to go around a cart and come up from behind found Clint casually flipping his sharp dagger and blocking the access. The thing was, Clint knew Obediah Stane; the man was an opportunist who cared about money and power more than people. He certainly wasn’t above selling out friends and allies to get his way; he’d already sent hired muscle, the men at the tavern, to survey the lay of the land in Coulfell. Clint wouldn’t put it past him to be in cahoots with some of Phil’s enemies. The man was a consummate double-crosser. 
 
“Cravings?” Stane latched onto that word. “That dark-skinned midwife’s potions must be very potent.” 
 
Right, Clint remembered. Stane was a racist as well. 
 
“Oro is the best on the continent.” Phil seemed unaffected but Clint knew the casual bigotry bothered her. “But even she can’t provide one hundred percent certainty. No, I’ve always loved a good dense bread with bacon jam, and Clint can tell you how often I’ve stolen whole jars of pickles.” 
 
“Ah, yes.” Stane’s gaze barely flickered towards Clint. “Winifred’s poor relation. I’d heard he ran off after she finally laid down the law. Taking in an orphan is one thing, but giving him delusions above his station was her biggest mistake.” 
 
Not just a racist, but a raging asshole as well. Clint let his resting murder face settle over his countenance; the guard who’d been trying to get around him took one look, blanched, and fell back. 
 
“Obediah.” Phil’s voice turned deadly cold. “If your goal is to press your suit to be an advisor to any Imperial heir then insulting those close to me is not the best strategy to prove your loyalty and strengths. Neither is sending men to spy on me in my own country nor is waylaying me on a street. If you wish to make an appeal, assuming there is an heir at all, then feel free to arrange an official envoy and visit through Lady Melinda. Now, if you’ll excuse me …” 
 
She sped up, attempting to turn down another street, but Stane cut her off. His hand shot out, reaching for her wrist, but the rattle of Rogers’ sword in its sheath forestalled the motion. 
 
“Philomena, you have to understand. You’re in great danger; there are forces at work that you know nothing about. Your father protected you from the darker side of the world, jealousy and machinations and crime …” 
 
“If you are referring to the syndicates from the Outer Rim that Garrett owes money to, I am aware of them.” Phil was moving across the cobblestone now in determined strides. 
 
“Yes, the syndicates. They are run by ruthless families who will do anything to keep their power and wealth. They operate outside the Imperial bailiwick, basically run the island governments, and, once they set their sights on something, will take any avenue to meet their goals. It’s not just money but other things, the kind of behavior that shouldn’t be spoken about in front of a lady like you.” 
 
Clint couldn’t believe that Stane was dumb enough to explain to Phil something she already knew. The way Phil straightened her shoulders and drew her head up told Clint she wasn’t having any of it. 
 
“Do not think because I am female that I am easily manipulated or sold lies. Women are victims of slavery, Obediah, so we can certainly hear about it. As well as child rape and drug dens and sex clubs that you need a tattooed key to get into because what happens there is so depraved.” Phil glanced at Stane’s wrists, and he tugged his sleeves down.”I am a realist; I understand that to rule is to make difficult and sometimes unpopular decisions. I prefer more straight talk and less of these games.” 
 
“Well.” Stane’s eyes narrowed as if he was seeing Phil for the first time. “And here I thought you were more like your father, the idealist. You’ve got a healthy dose of your grandmother in you, don’t you? Yes, that will work just fine. I shall arrange a meeting once the news is official; Starkridge and Coulfell have long stood together and we shall present an united front in this as well. Any aid or advice you need, do not hesitate to ask.”
 
Phil inclined her head. 
 
“And allow me to send my men along with you as protection,” Stane continued. “Just in case …” 
 
“That won’t be necessary,” Phil said. “Captain Rogers, if you will?” 
 
Steve cut a swath through the street, people moving out of his way. All Phil had to do was put herself at his left and follow his lead. Surprised, Stane stepped back and let them go; his lips turned down in a frown, clearly unhappy with the turn of events. 
 
Stopping at his shoulder, Clint leaned in. 
 
“This is your only warning,” he said, voice calm and even. “Don’t, by word, deed, action, or thought, cause any harm to come to Philomena.” 
 
Stane flat out sneered, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “Or what? You’ll kill me? A mewling pup like you?” 
 
“There are much worse things than death, Obediah Stane.” Clint smiled, a hard look that promised violence. “Marabel is such a lovely little island, isn’t? I hear you like the beaches in the south.” 
 
Stane froze, his eyes flickering to the guards who were taking up positions around him. 
 
“I’ll destroy you if you try anything,” Stane blustered but Clint could see the fear in his eyes. 
 
“You can try.” Clint pulled back and started walking, turning to give a parting shot over his shoulder. “But trust me, you’ll never see me coming.”
 
He caught up with the others; Phil raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask. Instead, she pointed at the corner and turned them down another lane.
 
“Did he have the guard out looking for us?” she asked. “He’d have to know I wasn’t at the lodge and where we were headed.” 
 
“Maybe he has someone in the palace or the guard.” Clint kept a close eye on the street behind them; he caught the man trying to follow them immediately. “Garrett may have talked to the men.”

“Or he just happened to be here. Stane comes to Piste often; one of his mistresses has a home on the bluff. She likes sweets from a confectionary near where we were,” Rogers suggested. “If we’d worn cloaks …” 
 
“The shop’s down here,” Phil interrupted to point the way. 
 
Hu-Wan’s mercantile took up two store fronts and had three stalls out front, shelves filled with products coming from local farms; both Swindol and Jonier sold their wares there. From the number of people milling around and the steady stream of customers, they were doing a brisk business. Phil dived into the flow, angling for the door; Clint didn’t like the press of bodies to get through the small opening, but it did mean the man following them was caught in the bottleneck as well. 
 
Inside, workers scurried around, helping customers. Baskets of fresh bread filled the wall near the front window while jars of jams and jellies were further in the back, near a large display of pickled vegetables. As they wove their way around the line to buy fresh honey, Clint scoped the room for potential exits; a little distraction and it would be easy to ditch their tail if there was a quick way out. 
 
“Can I interest you in some of Swindol’s jams? Fresh this morning!” The shop girl held out a jar labeled bacon onion. “If you like spice, Junior’s pickled cucumbers are delightfully crisp.” 
 
Even Clint took a second to realize the woman with dark brown hair tied up in braids and a simple blue apron was Natasha. She smiled as she reached for the pickles. 
 
“That’s four krona; I can wrap this so they don’t break if you like.” 
 
She led them to the very back corner where barrels filled with dried herbs were stacked in a pyramid, half-blocking a curtained doorway. Lifting up the pass through, she ducked behind the counter, leaving the way open. 
 
“We’ve got a tail.” Rogers kept his voice pitched low; he put Phil in front, using both his and Clint’s bodies to block her from view. 
 
“Three, actually.” Natasha deftly pulled a small basket and began packing it. “One stayed outside and the other is probably trying to find the alley exit. But we’re not going that way. Head through the curtain, turn left and go down the stairs. I’ll be right behind you.” 
 
She handed the basket to Phil just as a woman behind them shouted, “He stole my purse!” 
 
Clint didn’t need to look around; he knew the tactic of using a street urchin as a distraction all too well. Nudging Phil and Rogers forward, they ducked through the curtain while chaos erupted in the store. Without pausing, he headed down to the basement, Rogers taking his spot bringing up the rear. By the time they were in the storeroom, Natasha was there, pressing a brick on the wall and opening up a hidden entrance; once inside, she swung the door shut behind them. Glowing globes lit the pathway that sloped down; in the distance they could hear the sounds of water splashing.
 
“‘A ferryman tunnel?” Phil asked. 
 
“They run under a lot of the buildings and lead straight to the port,” Natasha said as she took the lead. 
 
“From the continental war.” Rogers put a hand on the curved stone wall. “This is how they ran the blockade of goods from stricken countries. Bucky had a contact that could get us spices from Madripoor and coffee from the Rim sometimes.” 
 
The ground was packed earth, tamped down by the passing of feet and heavy cargo; Clint barely heard their footsteps as they walked. 
 
“Now they’re used for ease of delivery,” Natasha explained. “The town has gotten so big that some of the streets aren’t passible or too congested for loaded wagons. Everyone knows these passages are here, but there’s so many entrances and exits it’s hard to map them all.” 
 
“You can still find some outlawed and bootlegged goods mixed in with the official stuff,” Clint said. “Couple of them lead out to coves further down the coast.” 
 
“Here. Take your hair down and run this through it.” Natasha handed Phil what looked like a small reddish rock. She reached another to Clint and one for Steve. “We need to make a detour so we’ll be out in the open for a few minutes.”
 
“Disguises,” Rogers muttered. “Like I said.”
 
The dye was like soft clay; Clint pinched a small amount off and rolled it across his fingers to soften it. Then he ran his hand through his hair, leaving darker streaks. Steve’s dye was not as dark as his, but when it mixed with his natural blonde, the hair became a deep brown. The more they mixed in, the stronger the dye job became. When they came to a low wooden deck that served as a pier in a shallow canal,  Clint dipped his fingers in the cold water and washed the stains off. 
 
“Stand still,” Natasha told Phil, wetting her hands then running them through Phil’s hair once, twice, and a third time. “It will be lighter at the scalp this way.” 
 
Clint stumbled to a halt as his breath caught in his throat; the last time he’d seen Phil with her hair down was right before her wedding to Grant and the memory slammed into his heart. The pain of losing her, the ache of unspoken feelings, the need to get away. He and William had walked in on Kicho and Phil with the planner, talking hairstyles and dress design; then, her hair had been straight and long, hanging down her back in a shiny brown fall. Now, it curled and waved, a loose tumble that caught on her shoulders and swung free around her face. He was mesmerized by the path of her fingers as they spread the red from her temples to the ends. The desire to know if it was as soft as it looked was overwhelming. To feel it brush against his hands. To have it stick to his skin as they moved together. 
 
“They’ll find the horses.” Rogers’ voice broke in before Clint’s brain could go further down that path. “And know we haven’t left town that way.” 
 
“Don’t worry,” Natasha assured him. “We have a friend who can take care of that.”
 
“Aw, Nat, you know he’s still mad at me about that job in Quonda,” Clint grumbled. 
 
“Not him.” She smiled at him. “His sister.” 
 
“Oh, great.” Clint sighed. “Well, at least she likes me.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

What is stronger than the human heart which shatters over and over and still lives?

Milk and Honey,

Rupi Kaur

The shop was down one of the lanes that spindled off the main port, where small merchants sold speciality and unique goods. There was a bookstore two lanes over that carried small tomes of history in many languages; Phil had stopped in to buy her father one for his birthday a few years ago. Kicho had often bought silk at another, and Tony used to take Dewan to a cluttered little space with all kinds of metals bits and bobs. The Empire might cover miles, but the many countries and cultures represented here made it seem much smaller. 
 
They’d come out at the far end of the docks and had to traverse the waterside street; Natasha had flipped the apron and tied it around Phil’s waist, turning it into a skirt. Loose hair fell along her shoulders; curls had formed after Natasha had wet it. Her mother had taught her to brush it one hundred strokes so it was smooth and silky, a task she’d resented because her hair was fine and easily tangled; Kicho had favored intricate styles with tiny braids with interwoven gems and tatting. It had been a long time since she’d let it hang free, and if the looks Clint kept giving her meant anything, he’d forgotten how she run around with it a mess when they were younger. 
 
An array of scents greeted them as they entered the shop; spice bins lined the wall, the shelves filled with glass jars of tea and coffee beans. Before the door shut behind them, a woman came out from the back; wearing a simple burgundy dress, she was young, her dark hair pulled back by a matching coronet. She stopped at the counter, raised one eyebrow, and fastened her gaze on Clint. 
 
“Did you bring Pietro’s raika?” she asked. 
 
“Gods and garters, are you ever going to forget that?” Clint huffed. “Dekan warriors were after me and I didn’t have time to check that it was stowed properly. My clothes smelled of peach brandy for weeks!” 
 
 “I just like seeing you sweat a little.” A smile broke over her face and she laughed. “I warmed up the samovar and have a pot of Natasha’s favorite spiced tea. Pietro went to the bakery for some vanilla lace cookies; he should be back shortly. Come, and bring your friends.” 
 
Holding aside the curtain, she took them into a work room dominated by a large wooden table in the center; it was covered with piles of fragrant components being mixed by two young women. The walls were covered in boxes and tins and glass jars filled with herbs and spices from all over the continental and the Outer Rim, each neatly labeled.
 
“Kitty, watch the front,” the woman said to one of the girls as she headed for a staircase that led to the second floor. 
 
At the top was a cozy sitting room with two couches and plenty of chairs, small tables between each. Along the back wall was a buffet that held a silver urn on one end and sets of teacups and saucers; honey, sugar, milk, and jam were lined up beside them. 
 
“Please, sit, be comfortable. Clint, get everyone some tea; the tray is in the first drawer.” She opened a cupboard and took out a long metal tin; inside were crisp chocolate dipped biscuits. “No need to worry; you’ll be safe here, Captain Rogers. The local guard chief and I are on good terms; she loves my mint chai for her migraines.” 
 
“How do you know my name?” Steve balked, planting his feet as his hand fell on the hilt of his sword. 
 
“Wanda knows things; she’s a blood witch,” Natasha said, passing the first full cup to Phil. Phil stepped around Rogers and sank into the soft cushion of one of the couches.  She took two of the biscuits when the woman offered them to her.  
 
“Actually, some of the guard recognized you; they’ve put out a watch for your whole party. The port will be teeming with them.” The new voice came from the stairway; Phil cut her eyes over and saw a young man standing at the top with hair so blonde it was almost white. He handed her a wrapped parcel and moved to the buffet to fix a cup of tea for himself.  “Keep your hands off the cookies, Barton. They’re not for you.” 
 
“My brother, Pietro,” Wanda introduced. “This is Captain Steve Rogers of the Imperial Guard and Her Majesty Philomena, the Queen of Coulfell.” 
 
Pietro nodded to Steve then gave a sober bow toward Phil. “My deepest condolences for your loss, Your Majesty. Whatever we can do to help bring their murderer to justice, just ask.” 
 
“Thank you.” She added a little honey  and a touch of milk to her tea and took a sip. “Is this elaichi or marsala?” 
 
“Fresh cardamom from Karanthe and just a hint of lemon. Plus a pinch of vanilla. Good for digestion and relieves stress,” Wanda answered as she settled into a nearby chair and Phil realized she was wearing black pants underneath her split skirt. With deft fingers, she unwrapped the package, revealing white powdery cookies. “Pietro and I are from Sokovia;  Clint and Natasha saved us from a very bad situation. I owe them my life, and so I will do what I can to aid him and his friends.” 
 
“The Twins did most of the work themselves,” Clint objected as he handed Steve a cup; the soldier took it and finally sat down. “We just unlocked a door.” 
 
“They found us in Baron Von Strucker’s dungeon,” Wanda explained, passing the cookies around. “Our parents were killed by Starkridge forces during the Battle of Novapest. Neither side cared how many people were killed by their weapons; it was a Stark designed  trebuchet that destroyed our home but Schmidt’s bombardment brought down many others.  Strucker promised he could give us the means to stop the constant incursions. He lied, of course, and we were too naive to see it.” 
 
“Von Strucker was one of those who worked with Schmidt; he said he believed in the cause but he was also a realist,” Rogers said. He spooned in a dollop of jam and added a couple drops of milk. “Switched sides pretty quickly when Schmidt’s madness became evident.” 
 
“His lineage is very old and intertwined, albeit very distantly,  with the Emperor’s.” Phil had met him once at a ball thrown by Tony’s parents; a complete egotist, she’d heard stories of how he treated women. “Believes his blood gave him a divine right to do what he wanted.” 
 
“Yes, that’s him,” Pietro agreed. “A bastard through and through.” 
 
 “I was already showing magical abilities when we went to his castle; he was sure the academics and scholars he had working for him could make me stronger. Of course, we didn’t know for a long time that all the others who’d volunteered had died because of his experimentation,”  Wanda said.
 
“You never told me you volunteered.” Clint settled into his own chair. “I thought he captured you.” 
 
“I did not want you to judge me. I was so angry that I didn’t see how evil he was,” Wanda told him.
 
“Strucker created a mutation in your blood.” Phil had a sudden insight. 
 
“Yes, It was quite painful; when we didn’t die the first time, they kept doing it over and over again. Then we began to show new abilities, and they could not duplicate it on anyone else.” She paused. “Strucker was frustrated; two did not make an army, he yelled at the scholars and mages. To fulfill the glorious vision, he needed hundreds, thousands.” 
 
“Glorious vision?” Rogers noticeably paled. “Arnim Zola used that phrase, called it a world free of corruption in the blood. He wanted to purge the impurities and create perfect human beings.” 
 
“In his own image, I’m sure,” Natasha said. “No women or people with dark skin or of different religions.”
 
“Yes. We realized our story was part of a bigger atrocity.  Now that they have turned it  into a weapon, they are closer to their goal,” Pietro explained.
 
“This was Five, ten years ago?” Phil asked.
 
“We found Wanda and Pietro three years ago,” Clint said. “They’d been there, what, a year?” 
 
“A year and a half,” Pietro answered. 
 
“So Strucker was experimenting after the war ended?” Phil shook her head at how long this had been kept quiet. “As recent as  three years ago … one of the mages he was employing might have created the spell used on my family.” 
 
“Most of them weren’t there of their free will.” Pietro stirred sugar into his tea as he spoke. “Strucker kept their families in the cells, used them as leverage. I doubt any of them would have continued if they survived the destruction. But there were two, a woman and a man. She had no scruples at all, would do anything to get results;  she thought she could heighten our basic animal instincts. They called her Viper. He was more of an academic, talked about creating diseases so he could find cures and went on about naturally occurring mutating agents. Loved poisons; had a whole room filled with plants that could kill you. Went by the name of Sinister.”
 
“Code names,” Rogers said. “A lot of Schmidt’s people had them, especially the ones who were from noble families. Some even wore masks and hoods to avoid being identified.” 
 
“Still, knowing they were working for Strucker gives us a place they were located and a description,” Clint argued. “It’s a start.”
 
“Last I heard, the Baron had gotten married and had a son. He and Lord Daniel of Whitehall had a falling out over something.” Phil tried to pull more details from her memory.
 
“Probably because he blames Whitehall for the destruction of his keep.” Clint gave a little grin. “I have no idea how he got that idea, right, Nat?” 
 
She merely raised an eyebrow, ignored Clint, and offered another lace cookie to Phil. The sweet crumbled in the mouth, and Phil snagged two more before handing them on to Steve. 
 
“That was you?” Rogers asked. “The Emperor sent an envoy to investigate; all they came up with was some eyewitness accounts of demons and devils roaming the halls.” 
 
“He had children in cages.” Natasha’s voice was deadly cold. “To be given as presents to guests.” 
 
Silence reigned for a few moments after that declaration. Phil wasn’t sure what to say; she had no moral qualms with Clint and Natasha doing what they had to in order to save kids. Far too many in positions of power thought they could do whatever they wanted; it was beyond time some of them suffered consequences for the evils they wrought upon the world. 
 
“Speaking of terrible men, how did you know Obediah had a club mark?” Clint asked. “He keeps his trips to the islands very quiet.” 
 
“I didn’t; I just guessed.” Phil shrugged and took another cookie, dipping it in her tea. “Tony always said Obediah’s civility was only skin deep. He sold supplies and arms to Schmidt during the war, you know, behind the Empire’s back.” 
 
“His heart is blackened ash,” Wanda agreed. “It is well-known that he had something to do with Lord Anthony’s death, but his grip is too tight for anyone to formally accuse him.” 
 
“He tried to pass a law that would make it illegal for foreigners to own businesses. We’d lose our shop, as would so many others. Says we’re taking jobs from the ‘fine citizens of Starkridge’ which is so much rot and blather. He’s one of them, just like Strucker; Stane just hides it better than the others,” Pietro said. “He’ll have designs on Coulfell, mark my words.” 
 
“Which is why we need your help.” Phil shifted back to the topic at hand. “We had thought to pass through quietly but Obediah discovered our presence.” 
 
“We left our horses at Hank’s and were going to pick them up once we were back.” Clint jumped in. “But if Stane finds them …” 
 
“You need to be seen leaving town for misdirection.” Pietro nodded. “We can do this. Just tell us where you want us to take them and we’ll make sure the guard thinks you rode out. Too bad they’ll lose the trail not far outside the gates.” 
 
“Leave them with Sam Wilson, the healer, up by Meriton. Tell him Steve sent you,” Rogers said. 
 
“I know Sam.” Wanda smiled. “He is a good man. I’ll send him some chicory blend and dried chilies he loves.” 
 
“Well, that’s solved.” Clint smiled at Wanda.
 
“That’s the easy part,” Pietro chided. “You still have to thread your way through the guard patrols without being seen. We’ll have to get you some disguises.” 
 
Phil smothered a laugh as Steve glared at Clint. 
 
They finished their excellent tea -- Phil made a note to tell Melinda about the store -- then Pietro jumped up and disappeared into another room, motioning Clint and Steve to follow him. After Natasha filled both their cups up again, Wanda took them down a hallway and into what was clearly her bedroom. 
 
“Color,” Wanda said, opening a wardrobe. “And something unexpected.” 
 
She pulled out a white linen top and an emerald green corset embroidered with red roses. It was exquisitely made, from the perfect rows of stays to black leather laces. 
 
“Yes, this will work,” Natasha nodded as she saw them. “Add a weapon, braid your hair, and you’ll look like a different woman.”
 
“Dagger.” Wanda said decisively; an aura of red floated around her fingers as she took a small one from under her bed. “She’ll need it.” 
 
Phil slipped out of her vest and pulled her shirt over her head, tossing the rigged apron skirt off as well. The linen was soft and clean and the sleeves fell off her shoulders, the gathering string running low around her chest, leaving  a lot of skin bare. After tucking in the hem, she dropped the corset over her head and settled it around her waist. 
 
“This is excellent workmanship,” she said, running a hand over the delicate threading and neatly sewn seams. 
 
“A Sokovian seamstress has a shop in town,” Wanda told her as she began tightening the laces in the back. As the corset constricted, Phil’s breasts were pushed up, filling out the shirt and leaving a generous amount of bosom showing. “Eighty if she’s a day and she still does beadwork by hand.” 
 
“Olga?” Natasha was switching out her shop girl kirtle for a tight black leather corset. It came to a vee in the front and back, and rose up high enough that her red  shirt could be seen above the waistband of her pants. “She’s ninety-two. Claims to be the lost heiress of the Komorosky fortune.”  
 
“Bend and breathe,” Wanda said. Phil leaned to each side and bowed; the corset gave easily but stayed in place. Then she inhaled deeply, felt her lungs expand with no constriction, and nodded. “May I do your hair? Maybe a three tiered braid? There’s makeup in the box there. Help yourself.”
 
“Please.” 
 
Phil sat down on the stool in front of an oval mirror; the woman who stared back was curvy with red hair and a riot of curls, nothing like the queen in mourning who’d left the palace just yesterday. Things were happening so quickly, danger dogging her heels so she barely had time to react.  
 
“I’m going to scout the streets.” Somehow Natasha had already changed, her hair darker brown and freed from confines. She’d wrapped a strip of cloth around her head, tied it off in the back; gold hoops hung from her ear lobes.  “Make sure the way’s clear and they’re expecting us.” 
 
After she left, Wanda started combing Phil’s hair, humming as she did, her hands sure and steady. With facile fingers, she divided it into sections and started weaving a pattern. The gentle tug and pull was calming; her mother had always sang when they sat together, preparing for bed. Phil blinked, exhaustion sneaking up on her; she’d slept last night but not deeply and not nearly enough. To stave it off, she took out a kohl pencil and lined her eyes. 
 
“There.” Wanda put the last tie in her hair. 
 
“It’s lovely.” Phil turned her head and saw the way the smaller braids twisted together; soft curls fell around her face.  “Thank you.  I appreciate your help.” 
 
“It’s no problem,” Wanda answered. “I am glad to …” 
 
A thrum filled the room and the very air seemed to shiver; a chill ran over Phil’s skin, like the passing of someone over her grave. It rang in her ears for two heartbeats then faded.  
 
“What was that?” Phil asked, standing. 
 
Thumping footsteps and voices came down the hall; the door flew open and Steve entered first, sword drawn.  
 
“Are you okay?” Steve stepped to the covered window. He’d changed from his guard shirt into a blue silk that clung to his broad chest. His hair was messy, streaks of blonde back around his face.  “That was a magical attack.” 
 
“What you felt were the wards working.” Wanda was weaving her hands, trails of red flowing into patterns. “It was a type of locator spell;  the wards are made so it rolls off without alerting the caster they were disrupted.” 
 
“Blood location? ” 
 
Clint was in the doorway, bow out, where he could see the bedroom and the living area. Phil’s heart skipped a beat when she saw the silky purple shirt that hung open, a wide swath of chest exposed; it was sleeveless, and every curve of his biceps and arms were on display, muscles tensing and shifting as he held an arrow against the taut string. Coherent thought flew right out of her head as her eyes grazed over the tanned skin. 
 
“The area is fairly limited, but yes. The church has other ranged spells and are working on more.” Wanda’s forehead crinkled as she sent tendrils flowing through the room.
 
“A guard patrol, Stane’s men, on the docks, walking a grid; they’ve moved on.” Pietro appeared in the doorway. “Had a healer mage with them doing the spellwork.

“They’re hunting me.” Phil managed to drag her brain back into the conversation. 
 
“That doesn’t make sense.” Clint lowered his bow. “A spell like that needs a sample for each use. No way they have any of your blood.” 
 
“I don’t think they’re searching for family connections.” Wanda seemed to reach into the empty air and pluck out a strand of grey smoke. She spun it and it broke into two, twisting around each other. “Ah, I see. The spell is targeted to look for mutated blood, magical changes.” 
 
“Is it Strucker? Looking for you?” Clint asked, his concern evident. 
 
“We’re individually warded.” She showed Clint her forearm where a delicate floral tattoo circled her wrist. 
 
“Me.” Steve stared at the ghostly representation of his blood. “I’m who they’re looking for.”
 
“A locator spell is but one problem.” Natasha came down the hallway. “There’s at least four patrols on the docks. We’re going to have to take the long way around and that means leaving now.” 
 
“Give me a moment.” Wanda dropped her hands. “Pietro? The box.” 
 
They followed her back to the living area, gathering their things. Phil tucked the well-balanced dagger on her belt; Clint watched her every move with his blue-grey eyes.  By the time she was ready, Pietro zipped back up the stairs, a carved wooden box in his hand. Wanda opened it and pulled out some leather strips; each had a coin tied in the middle. 
 
“These will protect your blood from being read by a spell,” she said as she handed one to each of them. “Rub the coin between your fingers and it will transfer to your skin.” 
 
It was a common copper, a hole punched in the middle; Phil held the strand out and looked it over. “So it works as long as we’re wearing it?”
 
“It lasts three weeks, even if you lose the token,” Wanda answered. “And you can renew it by rubbing it again.” 
 
Clint tied his around his neck, the glint of the coin lying on his chest; he caught her look and then held out his hand for hers. Rather than circling behind her, he picked up her left hand and wrapped it around her wrist, making a bracelet out of the leather. His fingers tickled as they brushed along the sensitive skin and tucked the ends in carefully. 
 
“Give it a rub.” He grinned, winked, and her stomach did a little swoop. 
 
As soon as she touched it, she felt a flash of heat up her arm; it pooled on the back of her left shoulder then faded away. 
 
“What?” She ran a hand over the bare skin and felt slightly raised edges. 
 
“The spell takes a form commiserate to the bearer,” Wanda told her. She pointed to the mirror on the wall. 
 
A tattoo spread from her neck down her back; a constellation of  six stars, the largest at the top with a curved tail of four medium-sized and a distant small one. 
 
“The Nordstern.” Clint’s fingers were a gentle graze as he traced the trajectory. “That’s perfect for you. True north, the only constant.” 
 
“Goes well with yours,” Natasha told him, pulling the edge of his barely there shirt. Just under his left pectoral muscle was a stylized compass with a bow and arrow as a needle; it pointed north, straight up. 
 
Clint coughed then said, “well, I do never miss, so …” 
 
“Oh.”  Steve was gazing in wonder at  the inside of his wrist; a blue center was circled by smaller blue curved rectangles, all within black lines. “Can it be made permanent?”
 
“It would take about an hour, but yes,” Wanda answered. 
 
“We don’t have time …” Natasha started. 
 
“Not for me.” Steve cut her off. “Send one to Sam; he’ll know who needs it.” 
 
Wanda smiled. “I will.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I prithee send me back my heart,

Since I cannot have thine;

For if  from yours you will not part,

Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain;

For th'hast a thief in either eye

Would steal it back again.

Sir John Suckling

“When I say go, get to the ship,” Clint said quietly, his  head tilted close to Phil’s. “You’ll be safe once you’re onboard.” 
 
The plan had gone sideways before they made it twenty steps out of the alley; Phil was to go with Natasha, Clint and Steve to circle the opposite direction, but a pair of guards stationed on the corner had turned at the wrong time and Clint had yanked Phil into a store while the others dodged behind a wagon. With a hand signal, they separated. 
 
“What are you going to do?” Phil asked, her eyes flickering towards the row of ships along the busy dock. 
 
This would be so much easier if she wasn’t so damn distracting, shoulders bare, hair so inviting to touch. She’d always dressed well, but conservative; her wedding dress had been a simple sheath of silk in Coulson blue. But this? The corset emphasized her waist and made the curve of her hips even fuller. The swell of her breasts were evident in the gathered shirt, and spattered freckles over her collar bone were on prominent display. She looked younger, freer, in a way he hadn’t seen in  years, not since she stopped running through the castle with him, Will, and Tophe, clattering up and down stairs. Walking down the docks with an easy stride, side-by-side, felt exactly like those days of mischief and adventure.
 
“What I do best: cause trouble.” He winked and she rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m just going  to direct attention somewhere else. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

“You better be or we’ll have words,” she told him. He’d been taking care of himself for the last four years but it felt good to have someone worry about him even if it was couched in her trademark dry sarcasm. She wasn’t completely buying it, but they didn’t have much of a choice. Another patrol was headed their way. 
 
“Yes, ma’am.” 
 
He kept the red-coated guards in his sight as they passed a stack of crates filled with star fruit being off-loaded from a deep-well cargo ship. Palming one, he tested the weight; it was still green and hard enough for his use. A seller with a stack of brass pots was a perfect target; with a quick flick of his wrist when the men weren’t looking, he sent the fruit winging on its way. It hit dead center with a loud twang and the whole stack teetered before tumbling over into the next booth that sold fresh produce.  Cabbages and tomatoes rolled off their carefully crafted pyramids, knocking carrots and potatoes into the street. 
 
“Now.” 
 
With a little push, Clint sent Phil on her way; he slowed and, like others, started picking up the produce that had escaped. The merchant shouted as street kids darted in, grabbing what they could. As he left his wagon to try and run them off, others  reached for apples and prized oranges. To add to the confusion, Clint sent some items rolling in different directions; it didn’t take long before a foot hit a potato and the person went down. By that point, the guard had converged on the increasingly chaotic scene. Clint bumped into the poor merchant who was red in the face and dropped two gold pieces in his pocket before he slipped away and made it to the ship. 
 
Docked at the end of the pier, the Risa Okun was sleek and lean brig, well-kept up with crisp white main and top sails and black royals that were gathered and tied. At the end of the gangplank stood an intimidating woman with dark skin, shaved head covered in an orange and green scarf; she raised one elegant eyebrow as Clint came down the pier. 
 
“We were about to leave without you,” Ayo said, her accent pronounced. “The tide waits for no one.” 
 
“There’s plenty of time.” Clint started up the plank. “A good quarter of an hour before you push back.” 
 
“Five minutes.” She tapped him on the ass with her short baton. “Now get onboard and explain the trouble you’re dragging with you. Three different guard patrols and the harbormaster stopped by to ask if we’d seen a group of two blonde men and a brown-haired woman looking for passage. Leaving a day earlier raised suspicions.” 
 
“Well, there you go, it’s not us,” he stepped onto the main deck and, as soon as she followed, the plank was pulled up behind them. “We’re two red-heads and two brunettes.” 
 
“Un-huh.” She crossed her arms. “Tell that to the Captain. She’s waiting in her cabin. With your friends.”

He skirted around the busy crew who were preparing to set sail, nodding to each as he went, familiar with the roll of the deck and where everything was. Hopping over one of the open grates that let in light and air to the hold below, he opened the door to the captain’s quarters; inside, he saw Natasha sprawled on a chair, Steve standing by the windows, and Phil just stepping back from hugging the beautiful black woman who helmed the ship. 
 
“Clint!” Phil admonished. “Why didn’t you tell me this was a Wakandan ship? And that Nakia was the Captain?” 
 
“They want to keep it quiet?” Clint glanced at Nakia who was grinning at him. 
 
“He did not tell us you would be with him either,” Nakia said to Phil. “Or we would have aided your arrival more, Your Majesty.” 
 
“Oh, none of that. We’ve known each other too long for titles.” Phil waved the honorific aside. “I’m more interested in this new career for you. Sea Captain? Merchant? When did you make the change?” 
 
“She didn’t,” said the other woman entering the cabin wearing armor and carrying a spear. 
 
“Okoye. It’s so good to see you.” Phil went in for another hug and Clint got to see the General of the Royal Wakandan Guard smile. 
 
“Oh, my

ọrẹ

. May Bast bless you and lead your family to the next life.” Okoye squeezed Phil tight. “We danced in their honor under the waning moon.” 
 
“You did?” Phil’s eyes widened. “I didn’t think you did that for outsiders.” 
 
“You

are

family,” Nakia said, laying a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “Christophe and T’Challa were like brothers and you know Edwan and Shuri were thick as thieves. You are not alone in your grief.” 
 
“I do … I did … but …” Her words caught and Clint could see the glitter of tears in her eyes. “I am honored.” 
 
“Nakia was already about to set sail when we heard the news and then we picked up these two scoundrels at our second port.” Okoye waved at Clint and Natasha. “We happened to be making for Piste anyway.” 
 
“Thank you.” Phil stepped back and eyed the two women. “Although I’m fuzzy on exactly why you’re here.” 
 
“Ah, for that, I can show you. Come, there’s some people who’d like to see you.” 
 
Okoye motioned and they all followed her back out onto the deck and down the stairs to the lower level. Clint stepped up to walk beside Phil and let Natasha and Steve take the rear. There was no danger here; Okoye would brook no one aboard who wasn’t loyal to the Wakandan crown. But he could see Phil’s exhaustion even if she hid it well. 
 
The space was divided in half, the first portion open with bunks and hammocks; women and girls filled most of them, sitting and talking with each other. They quieted as the group walked through; Okoye spoke to a number of them in their native languages. By the time they got to the door on the wall, Phil’s eyes had shifted from confusion to understanding. 
 
“You’re part of the whale-road,” Phil stated. “Freeing the trafficked and enslaved.”
 
“The freeing part is most often Hawkeye and the Widow’s role; we get them home or find them safe places,” Okoye said as she opened the door and ushered them inside. “Raids have been increasing near our borders; the slavers are growing bolder.”  
 
“Phil!” Shuri, Princess of Wakanda, dropped the tool she was holding and ran across the room to throw her arms around Phil. “When Tasha told us she needed passage, I wondered if it was for you. Clint had been so eager to get to you that I didn’t think he’d leave your side.” 
 
“Shuri?” Phil pulled back, her surprise evident. 
 
“Yes, Mother let me out of the country. I am working on the spell they used; Father agreed we must learn who cast it and how it works. We are gathering data and samples; I was going to wait to visit you until the mourning period was over.” Her expressive eyes clouded. “I want to see Edwan’s resting place, say goodbye.”
 
“Of course,” Phil promised. “You’re welcome, all of you.” 
 
“I’d come too, but it might cause a stir.” 
 
Dramatic as ever, Tony Stark stepped out of the shadows; the last few years had changed the man. Lord Anthony had been soft at the edges, his cheeks rounder and his blue eyes a kaleidoscope of emotions; Tony was older, harder, had more muscles and calluses on his hands, his feelings shuttered tight behind a cocky grin. 
 
“Tony?” It was Steve’s shattered voice that spoke first; Clint turned to see he had gone ashen pale, his eyes wide with disbelief. Steve took two steps closer. . 
 
“Captain Rogers,” A harsh note crept into Tony’s tone. 
 
Steve dropped the hand he’d been reaching out to touch Tony; the sadness that flitted across his face was gone in a moment, hidden behind a soldier's neutral stare. “They said you were dead, that you’d gone down with your ship.” 
 
“I did. Someone found me, nursed me back to health. By the time I was able to travel, everyone thought I was gone; if I’d come back, Obie would have tried again, so it was best I stayed that way. Wakanda gave me a place to work and I’ve been chasing proof of Obediah’s collusion with Schmidt and his ilk. When I heard about the blood spell …” Tony’s gaze softened as he looked at Phil. “Gods and garters, Phil, maybe I should have come back sooner; I might have been able to do something.”
 
“You couldn’t,” Phil assured him. “They’ve been hiding it well, the Church and the government and the universities. A piece here, a piece there; it’s like a big puzzle.” 
 
“That’s what I do, though.” Tony began to pace back and forth. “Distance, dispersal, mutations. I knew Justin was working on making the spell airborne, but I dismissed him for the idiot he was and didn’t think someone else would snap it up.” 
 
“Tony, it’s not your fault,” Phil said. “But we can use your help now. We have a lead on a couple of scholars who worked with Von Strucker and have some insight on the Imperial blood warrior program.”
 
“Strucker.” Tony practically hissed the name. “A zealot without any morals; everyone knows he’s experimenting in forbidden magic, but he’s got so many of the other nobles in his pocket -- Obediah included -- that he gets away unchecked. And don’t get me started on that blood warrior bullshit; making better warriors and soldiers through magic? Who in their right mind would volunteer for that?” 
 
Steve slammed the door as he left the room, his anger trailing behind him like a cloud of smoke. 
 
“Huh.” Tony watched him go then shrugged. “Probably something I said.” 
  
Clint adjusted his gait as he strolled across the deck, rolling with the motion as they cut through the water. They’d set course for Culver Island as soon as they’d left the harbor. Wakandan craftsmen built not only the best, but also the most comfortable and well-designed vessels; the sleek ship was fast and would make landfall by tomorrow evening
 
Tony had insisted they tell their stories from the beginning, and between him, Shuri, Okoye, and Nakia, they pulled out every detail from different angles. It was good to see Phil relax and open up, let others help and comfort her. She’d had Melinda, Mack, and Trip at the palace, but she’d also been surrounded by the pressure of her office, the demands of the people, and the politics of it all. Here, she was among friends, as safe as Clint could make her, and it showed. He’d left her with Tony and Shuri, knee deep in gossip about who among the nobility were most likely to benefit from the secret experiments. 
 
As he came up the stairs to the forecastle, Ayo jerked her head towards the bowstrip where Steve Rogers was staring out at the darkening sky, leaning on the railing. The man had made himself scarce since he’d walked out, and Tony had pointedly avoided anything to do with Rogers’ obvious recognition of him. Clearly, something was going on between them and Clint was determined to find out what. Whether he’d wanted Steve mixed up in this or not, the Captain had proven himself a valuable ally. So Clint walked over and joined him; Rogers didn’t acknowledge his presence for a few minutes, his eyes glued to the pink clouds fading to red as the sun disappeared below the horizon. 
 
“What did he say?” Rogers finally asked without turning his head. 
 
“Not a damn thing which, for Tony, is a miracle and a half,” Clint said. “He steadfastly avoided your name.” 
 
Steve sighed then seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumping. “Have you ever fucked things up so bad there’s no way to fix them? Get everything twisted and completely wrong?” 
 
“Ask Natasha about my fuck ups and then settle in for a couple of days; the list is long and very embarrassing,” Clint replied. “If there’s a right choice, I will do the exact opposite, loudly and dramatically.” 
 
“I’m not the dramatic type; that’s Tony’s bailiwick. Always thought of myself as the steady one who made rational decisions.” Steve’s chuckle was rough and deep. “Turns out, I wasn’t steady, I was rigid and couldn’t change. I hurt him and then I lost him and he’s got a right to hate me.” 
 
“Hate is quite a word choice. I’ve known Tony a long time and hate is how he feels about Obediah Stane,” Clint said. 
 
“Stane.” Steve clenched his teeth and his jaw set into a hard line. “He always was a bastard, but I thought he really did care for Tony. I mean, Buck and I, we were nothing more than shit to be wiped off his feet, but he treated Tony like his son. If I hadn’t been so damn stubborn, insisted on joining up with Bucky and running away to play soldier,  I would have been there with Tony, maybe figured out what Stane was up to, stopped it from happening. But I had a duty to uphold and that was more important.” 
 
Hunching in on himself, Steve hung his head, staring at the bow slicing through the water. 
 
“Maybe.” Clint wasn’t sure if Rogers needed comfort or just needed to talk. “But I’m pretty sure that Schmidt would have rolled through Aperia and right into Coulfell if it weren’t for you and your team. You made a stand and ended the war; lots of people are alive because of that.” 
 
“I used to believe my path was duty to Lord and Emperor; that’s why I volunteered for the experiments, to serve and protect people like Bucky’s mom and his sisters, our friends and their families. Gods, I was so sure; when Bucky joined up, I never questioned that I’d follow. Didn’t matter that I was a skinny thing with all kinds of health issues, I was going to fight the bad guys.” 
 
“Skinny Steve Rogers? I can’t imagine that.” Clint eyed the width of Rogers’ shoulders. 
 
“My mother was always trying new remedies and spells. Paregoric in a spoonful of sugar. Iodine drops in my ears. Breathing spells to ease the wheezing. She didn’t live to see me finally get the growth spurt she’d always hoped for; she died in an influenza outbreak when I was twelve. Bucky’s family took me in, which is how I met Tony.” He was quiet for a minute, seemingly lost in the memory. “I didn’t believe Tony when he came to me the night before I left for training. Asked me to stay, said he was worried about me, said he’d take care of me. I should never have let it happen, should have heard what he wasn’t saying, but I wanted it, the memory to carry with me..” Another silence spooled out. “It was better that way, a clean break. He was the Lord of Starkridge and I was some nobody’s son. We couldn’t be together, and I thought I needed to go be the hero.” 
 
The overwhelming ache of knowing the person he loved would choose duty over him was a little too close to home. To be rejected by Phil, like Rogers did to Tony -- Clint was suddenly glad he’d never said anything to her. 
 
“But war was nothing like I thought it was. Questionable decisions, nobles in charge who didn’t care, such violence we are capable of.  Then Bucky fell and Sam almost died and I was so busy chasing Schmidt to ground that I lost all perspective. After that final raid, I looked up and realized I was tired of blood on my hands. I headed home, jumped a ship and got all the way to Piste before I heard the news about Tony.” Steve’s voice cracked as he said the name. “Sam was in Meriton by then so I went to him and drank myself into a stupor until he got pissed enough to kick my sorry ass out. There wasn’t anything left but to go back to the Guard; it was all I was good for or at least that’s what I thought. Turns out Bucky was alive and being tortured and I didn’t do a damn thing about it. And now I find out Tony’s alive, and I was running around, doing the Emperor’s odd jobs while he was in hiding.  Gods’ blood, I’ve really fucked up.” 
 
“Yeah, okay, you made some mistakes,” Clint told him. “But when you found out Barnes was alive, you had a second chance and you went and got him, right? “
 
“Of course. No way I was leaving him in that dungeon.” 
 
“So are you going to let Tony’s pointed barbs stop you?” Clint asked. “Phil’s lost her whole family; they’re not coming back. But you have a chance to change things  or at least clear the air with Stark. That’s a gift, Steve. One  you can’t let pass.” 
 
“You’re right. Tony was right. Sam was right and he’s never going to let me forget it. To hell with duty, I’m going to talk to him. Being  with the one you love is more important than duty.” Rogers straightened up and looked right at Clint. “I’m not the only one with a second chance, you know. Maybe you should take your own advice.” 
 
Clint was speechless for a second before he could answer. “It’s different.” 
 
“You look at each other when you think no one will notice and, honestly, you’re both shit at disguising it ,” Steve said with a chuckle. 
 
“I have a damn good poker face,” Clint insisted. 
 
“Probably, but it’s been a trying few days; hard to keep up the facade when so much else is happening. Besides, I’m trained to notice details.” He paused. “Listen, the Emperor wants an heir, true, but he’s not going to be picky about it. The Coulsons have some Imperial blood; as long as the father has some too, he won’t care. And the troops will stay in Coulfell if there’s a child to protect.” 
 
“But Garrett …” 
 
“They didn’t. There wasn’t enough time. The sleeping draught Rumlow used is fast acting and it leaves people confused.” 
 
“She wanted Stane to think there was a chance.” Yeah, Clint could see it.
 
“All I’m saying is think about it,” Steve said.  
 
“To hell with duty?” Clint asked. 
 
“To hell with it all,” Steve agreed.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The sun has come.

The mist has gone.

We see in the distance...

our long way home.

I was always yours to have.

You were always mine.

We have loved each other in and out of time.

Maya Angelou “In and Out of Time”

“So this is where you’re hiding?” 
 
Phil climbed over the coiled rope and slipped under the forecastle stairs. Sitting on the deck, Tony had his legs between spindles, his feet hanging over the side. Phil joined him, folding her arms on the railing and resting her chin on her hands. Occasional light sprays of water were kicked up as they cut through the waves. 
 
“Best thinking spot on the whole ship,” Tony said. “We’re in the lea of the mast for a windbreak and shade, and out of the way of the anchor and lines.” 
 
“Un-huh.” 
 
The rocking motion had lulled her into a good night’s sleep, and she’d woken in Shuri’s cabin feeling much more centered and prepared to face what the day might bring. Nakia had left her some new clothes, a beautiful Wakandan shirt with a vibrant blue and green pattern that tied around her waist and matched well with a pair of brown leather pants. Another pattern adorned the silk scarf she used to tie her hair back. 
 
They’d caught up last night. As she’d predicted, Tony had kept tabs on Justin Du Marteau and knew exactly where he had been for the last year: a prison on Monteleone. Seemed he’d gone on a drinking binge, leaving a trail of broken promises and a ton of debt behind him. He certainly wasn’t the person who’d cast the spell; his reputation was for cheap, fast, and poor quality. But he’d needed money and Okoye had found proof he had sold off a lot of his intellectual property, his research and unique spells, to try and raise the funds to pay the Wytone family. Nakia had used her contacts to track some of the people who purchased them, but they’d run into dead ends on the dispersal spell. 
 
“Don’t start with me.” Tony wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 
 
“Okay.” 
 
It was obvious that Tony and Steve had some sort of past, one that Tony had never mentioned. Not that he’d talked about his relationships to Phil; he’d been much closer to Christophe with shared interests. Tophe had said that Robertine and Edwan were Tony split into his two halves, and the twins had basically worshiped Tony, hanging on his every word and making a nuisance of themselves when he was around. Tony, for his part, had infinite patience with the younger boys, encouraging their pursuits and going along with their schemes. 
 
If Bucky Barnes had grown up in the castle, and he and Steve were childhood friends, then it made sense Steve and Tony would have come into contact with each other. But their reaction to seeing each other yesterday had been more than just two acquaintances meeting again; there was a depth of emotion, anger and hurt that spoke of a much closer connection. 
 
“He made his choice and he has to live with it just like I did,” Tony blurted. “Damn his moral compass and fixation on righting wrongs. He never could leave things alone. If he saw a situation going south, he had to get involved.” 
 
“Sounds heroic to me,” Phil said. “I mean, he and his team were central to ending the war.” 
 
Almost all the historians agreed Steve was the nexus, the precipitating cause that brought about Schmidt’s downfall. She wasn’t naive about the realities of how Steve did it, the blood and bodies and lives lost, but she believed if Rogers hadn’t been there, things would have ended up much worse for the Empire. 
 
“Yeah, that’s Steve. A flame that all the moths gather around; always was, even when he was a tiny little thing.” Tony chuckled. “First time I met him, he was in the back garden, drawing on the ground with a stick in the middle of the cabbage patch. Full of piss and vinegar, ready to go a few rounds with anyone who looked at him wrong.  He told me off when I asked what he was doing there; I thought he didn’t know who I was but it turned out he just didn’t care.” 
 
“And you immediately liked him.”
 
Tony loved it when people stood up to him; that was one of the reasons he’d let her see behind his public mask of a wastrel rogue. She’d never been impressed by him, had shrugged and ignored it when he tried to push her away. When the twins came back to the lodge stumbling drunk one time, she’d stared down Tony until she got the full story of how he’d been distracted by a math problem, lost track of time, and then hunted them down, dragged them out of a pub, and brought them home. She and Tony had cemented their mutual accord that night, holding the boys' heads as they vomited and cleaning up after them so her father wouldn’t know. 
 
“Gods, yes. It was impossible not to. He’s an artist, did you know that?” Tony turned and his eyes practically sparkled as he talked. “Damn fine one. He’s really talented, could make a living out of it. He’d draw pencil sketches of machines I was working on; I have some of them hanging on the wall in my workshop in the castle.  Couldn’t bear to take them down after he left; he used to spend time sitting on the couch while I tinkered because he really couldn’t do much else with his health.” 
 
“He was sickly? I’ve never heard that,” Phil said, encouraging Tony to continue. 
 
“Had the lung sickness, always coughing, couldn’t catch a breath. Never had any energy, would pass out sometimes if he tried to exert himself. His mother tried everything; she died when he was young and he came to live with one of the cooks’ family. There was a boy, James, who trailed after Steve, watching out for him.” 
 
“Bucky Barnes,” Phil added. “His best friend.” 
 
“Yeah, his family called him Bucky, but everyone else used James. They signed up for the Imperial Guard together, and James died at Durnstran.” Tony paused. “James didn’t like me and I was pretty much terrible to him, and you know how much of an asshole I can be when I want to.” 
 
“Ah.” 
 
Yes, she’d seen Tony at his worst, when his father would rail at him to be a proper heir or Obediah pressured him to rein in his behavior. That Steve saw the real Tony was evident in his presence in the workshop; Tony was very particular about who he let into what he considered his private space. 
 
“Yeah, I know. I was jealous,” Tony replied. “You were lucky; your father was progressive on the issue of marriage and relations. My old man preached how our society was going to hell because of all the change and Obediah flat out hated men who loved men. No way I was going to let Steve be the center of their attention. Even after he had his growth spurt and got all musclely, they’d have thrown him to the wolves in the Church.”
 
“Don’t forget I was married to Grant when they sent his brother away to be ‘cured’.” Phil couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. “Thomas was a sweet boy, far too gentle to be born into that family.” 
 
“The place they sent Thomas was little more than a torture chamber; they knew he wouldn’t come back but they could claim they tried to ‘help’ him.” Tony grimaced. “Did you know Obediah is friends with Christian? He keeps it quiet, but they belong to some of the same clubs and spend weeks at a time with him on the Outer Rim. From what I hear, Christian is in deep to General Coy, something about rare collectibles. He’s taking out loans with high interest that he won’t be able to repay because he’s already tapped out the banks and above-board lenders.” 
 
“Christian’s smart but eventually the bill will come due and it will be violent because he lashes out when cornered.” Phil thought of Melina, the Widow Christian’s father kept for personal protection. “I saw him get angry a few times; he gets cold and even more distant and then he strikes like a snake. With Grant, it was all out in the open. Christian? You just tiptoed and prayed he didn’t know you existed. ” 
 
“I spoke to your father before, made my best argument against the marriage, even offered for you myself.” He shrugged when Phil turned wide eyes his way. “Yeah, I know, Coulfell needed a new alliance on the northern border, but I’d had a few dealings with Christian, went out drinking with Grant once. The barmaids disappeared when he came in; even the prostitutes made themselves scarce if they could. I figured you’d probably kill him within the first month when you found out just how rotten he was.” 
 
The cold knot in her chest tightened into a sharp pain, but she kept a straight face, hiding the momentary flash of panic. 
 
“You and I would be like oil and vinegar. Can you imagine us married?” she asked, lightly. “I’d try to organize your workshop and you’d kick me out of the castle.” 
 
“Nah, you’d drug me and leave me drooling on the carpet to get me to shut up.” He grinned and Phil breathed a little easier. “But it would have been worth it to get that pack of brother-in-laws. They were chaos personified, but it would be nice to have a family.”
 
She laughed because the other option was to cry. What she wanted was to talk and remember the good parts, to let the healing begin. So she smiled at the image of Bertie and Dwan’s reactions if she’d married Tony and found it bitter sweet.
 
“You are family, Tony. You let me step on your feet while I was learning to dance, babysat the twins, got Dwan to apply to Artificer school. Remember Sue’s wedding to Reed? The after party by the lake?” 
 
“Will was hiding from that one girl, what was her name? Prolina? Pauline? Prenia? I stole a barrel of ale, Bertie charmed the cook out of a whole tray of spiced rolls, you found some towels, and we soaked in the hot springs until everyone had gone to bed. Clint sang the filthiest songs; he never did write down that one about the ostrich and the fairy maid.” Tony’s laughter trailed off. “Gods, I miss them.” 
 
“Me too.” She blinked away tears. 
 
The conversation lagged, the memory rising between them. It had been a good night with people she loved and trusted. People she’d never see again. 
 
“You didn’t mention Steve,” she finally said. “You obviously cared for him.”
 
“I did. I do. It’s just … the night before he left, I asked him to stay and, well, I thought we understood each other but in the morning he got up, brushed me off his skin, and I got the ‘I have to do this, I can’t love you if I don’t fulfill my duty’ speech before he walked out.” Tony’s voice went flat. “Wasn’t like we could be together anyway, not with Obediah and the Bishop’s approval vote on the council. That was when I realized just what a crock of shit the whole ‘a royal’s life is not their own’ argument was. Put yourself last, do what’s best for the realm, listen to your advisors. Funny how an assassination attempt by the man you thought of as a mentor affects you. Death changes things.” 
 
“That I know,” Phil said. “But, for me, the options are even more limited.” 
 
“Why? Because the Emperor’s got his hopes set on a different heir and is willing to use a tragedy to get it? Because your advisors are pushing you to trade yourself so they can stay comfortable? You know how many of them have personal agendas? Alstair Fitz wants to increase his standing at Wunagan’s court, thinks if he seals the deal, he’ll move into the ranks of the favored. Melinda’s mother worked … maybe still works … for the Spymaster and he’s got his fingers in everything. Jasper Sitwell shares a great grandmother with Helmut Zemo, a rival of Strucker. Harald Simmons went to school with the Thaddeaus of Ross and Alexander Pierce, both of whom are plotting with Obie; Simmons’ obsessed with getting his blood line in positions of power.” 
 
She knew it all: Mack and Leo’s pining for each other, Victoria’s new job, Trip’s feelings for Jemma, where Maria was the year she disappeared. Her grandmother had kept extensive files and had passed them to Phil when she was old enough to understand that everyone had a shades of grey; it didn’t mean they weren’t good people, just that no one was perfect. She even told Phil about her own affair with the Spymaster of her generation, and the dangers of not having a realistic view of human nature. 
 
“No one’s above reproach, Tony. But that’s not why I have to do this; it’s because the people of Coulfell deserve to live their lives free from the tyranny of the likes of Tarelton or Lord Daniel of Whitehall.” Of all the things Phil believed, that was the one she was absolutely sure of. “And if I can do something to make that happen, then I will.” 
 
“Gods and garters, you sound just like Steve, running off to war because he had to save the world, throwing himself right into the line of fire.” Tony shook his head and she could see he was getting annoyed. “Of course we should do all we can, but it doesn’t have to be just us.

Everyone

should have the same goal. Instead it’s ‘Tony, you have to give up something you love’ while they sail off to fill their kink quota, or ‘Philomena, you have to sleep with this idiot instead of the man you want’ but they don’t share their wealth to expand the guard numbers. Our bodies and hearts shouldn’t be for sale.”
 
“That’s not how it works,” she objected. “Being born noble is a great responsibility. To those who have been given much …” 
 
“Much is required. Yeah, I heard your dad say that many times. I’m not saying we don’t have priorities, just that there are always alternatives, other options, rather than the ones the Church and the Emperor and advisors offer up. They have their agendas, but we have power too. I’m not just playing dead; I’m making alliances, gathering information, building and expanding ideas. If I had confronted Obie right after he sank that ship, he’d have labeled me crazy and had me sent away like Thomas for my ‘own good’. This way, when the time comes, I’ll have so much on him that he’ll slink away with his tail between his legs.” 
 
“Is that what you want? Revenge? Will that make you happy?” She could see how the plan could work. Obediah valued his reputation and the respect his position demanded. He could fold under the right leverage, but it was a risk. Once Tony ‘came back to life,’ there’d be all kinds of questions to answer, egos to smooth, and doubts to alleviate. 
 
“Going to hitch yourself to that idiot John Garrett so you can co-parent the next Emperor?” Tony always got right to the heart of the matter; he made bluntness a positive personality trait. “Will that make you happy?”
 
“I have no plans to marry him,” she snapped back. “But, unlike Grant, he at least made an effort to be civil about it.” 
 
“Gods’ blood, Phil.” Tony sighed. “I’m sure you’ve thought this whole thing through and know you have options. There’s no reason it has be Garrett; any one with imperial lineage will do even …” 
 
“Tony,” Phil warned. 
 
“You do know why he left?” he asked because, of course, Tony Stark didn’t know when to quit. “The real reason?” 
 
“You’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not, aren’t you?” she asked.
 
“You’re going to tell me to talk to Steve, aren’t you?” he shot back. 
 
“Fine. What’s your theory?” Her frustration slipped away as fast as it had come; he was right and, in all honesty, she really wanted to know. Running off to find his path in life wasn’t Clint’s style, and he certainly hadn’t left because he argued with Winifred. They had disagreements all the time. 
 
“Not a theory; took almost a half a bottle of good whiskey to get Christophe to cough up the details.” Tony looked at her closely. “You really don’t know, do you? Why is it so easy to see what’s going on in other people’s lives but not our own?” 
 
“Emotional blindspot.  You’re in the middle of it and can only see the direction you're facing,” Phil explained. “You have to train yourself to see out of the corner of your eye and anticipate rear attacks, and even then you miss the ones closest to you.”
 
“Huh. That actually makes sense why I didn’t see Obediah’s betrayal coming,” Tony said. “And maybe why you refuse to believe that Clint’s been in love with you for years.  It’s not a coincidence he left the same day he saw you in your wedding dress; a man can only take so much and watching you marry Grant was a bridge too far for him.” 
 
She remembered. Will had burst into the room, Clint on his heels, and they’d skidded to a halt when they saw her standing in front of the mirror, blue silk dress being fitted to her body. When Kicho asked why they were there, Will stuttered out something about wanting a night out before Phil left, and Clint had run out as fast as he could, but not before Phil had seen a look in his eyes she didn’t recognize. She’d told herself he was uncomfortable with the frippery and frills the modeste had strewn about the room, the very feminine nature of the whole trousseau process, but deep down she knew he was hurt, that somehow she’d caused him pain. Later when she saw him at supper, he was his usual upbeat, funny self, or at least she thought so until, later that night, he disappeared without a word. 
 
Could it be true? She’d convinced herself he couldn’t feel anything for her for so many years that her first thought was to reject the idea. Why hadn’t he said anything? Her memory brought up all the conversations about smart alliances, her brothers’ frank thoughts on not having a choice, her own talk of duty to the realm. When Will had tried to argue with her about Grant, explain how he would support her if she said no to the plan, she’d shut him down quickly; would Clint have any reason to believe she wouldn’t have done the same to him if he’d come offering protestations of love? Even now, her first act as queen was to do the same damn thing, to make a logical match that brought the most benefits. No, she could understand why he wouldn’t have said anything. 
 
But did it change things? If he loved her … her heart beat against her ribcage to just think it real … was Tony right? Could she find a way to best serve her people and admit that she loved him too? He had blood lineage to the Emperor: distant, but, when mixed with hers, it might be enough. To finally know the pleasure of sharing a bed with someone she was attracted to, someone who would value her pleasure? Yes, she wanted that. But therein lay the danger; could she have a taste of what it was like, being with a true lover, and then walk away? Would he be content to have what parts of her she was free to give? And, if she knew what it was like to lay with him, could she ever let him go? 
 
“Damn it.” She dropped her head into her hands, the implications and repercussions spinning in her mind. 
 
“Now you see why the whole thing with Steve is so complicated?” Tony patted her on the shoulder. 
 
“It might be better to just …” 
 
“Oh, no. No running away. I tried that and it absolutely didn’t work. I’ll make you a deal. I talk to Steve; you talk to Clint.” 
 
“I can’t …” She stopped, stared at the curl of a wave in the distance, felt the spray on her face and the sun on her skin. It all seemed so overwhelming. 
 
“Tophe wanted you to get your heads out of your asses. Will too. The twins used to leave the two of you alone on purpose,” Tony told her. “They would have loved to see you together.”
 
“That’s a low blow, even for you.” Phil managed a faint smile. 
 
“Got to fight dirty if you want to win against the likes of Obediah and his cronies,” he said. “No better reason to go into battle than for someone you love.” 
 
“Land ho!” Clint’s voice rang out from the crow’s nest. “Culver Island in sight!” 
 
“Is that what you’re going to do? Fight for Steve?” 
 
“Oh, I’m going to let him stew a little while longer; he deserves some quality thinking time after what he put me through, but, eventually, I’ll set him straight,” Tony said with a wink. “Now let’s get ready to talk to Bruce Banner; I’ve read all his papers and I’m dying to meet the man.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I was angry with my friend;

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

…

And into my garden stole,

When the night had veild the pole;

In the morning glad I see;

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

“The Poison Tree”

William Blake

They dropped anchor in one of the many coves around Culver. The port was a small town with only four piers but they didn’t want to risk anyone being recognized. Nakia knew the waters well, having used the island as a pick up and drop-off point; its isolated nature and rocky shores made it easy to hide comings and goings. So they landed a boat on a small strip of sand and took a switchback path carved in the white chalky cliffs to the top. From there, it was a short walk to where Bruce lived. 
 
Sam had given them very specific directions about how to approach the healer. Don’t sneak up on him, keep your weapons sheathed or out of sight. Wait at the stone fence until he comes out to greet you, and if he doesn’t, go away. From what Sam had said, Clint expected a tiny cottage surrounded by bushes and trees, hidden from prying eyes, the refuge of a hermit. What he saw instead was a collection of well-maintained buildings, sprawling across a wide clearing. A large house was at the center, three stories in the main section and two wings that jutted out at angles, covered walkways connecting them. Not far was a long rectangular structure that had a vaulted roof and lots of windows under the stone tile eaves. Further out were two barns, a smithy, and a roofed pavilion with drying herbs and a large pot in the middle. Large gardens were laid out in rows and had been carefully tended; down by the small creek, a grove of fruit trees were planted around four more structures. Clint saw at least three people moving around, a herd of cows in the field, and multiple horses in the stable. 
 
“Hermit, huh?” Tony leaned closer. “This is nicer than the Artificer compound in Boleine.” 
 
“Wilson said it had been a while.” Clint said as they came to a stop by the front gate. “Things change.” 
 
As they waited, Clint stepped a little closer to Phil; he saw her shoulders tense and her spine straighten. It had been like that since they’d left the ship, a tension running between them. He kept remembering his conversation with Steve, the different perspective he offered on Phil’s steadfast loyalty and determination to do what was right. He’d never quite understood, but now he saw that Winifred had always given him a level of freedom that Phil didn’t have. It was easy to forget when Phil made it look so effortless, gracefully accepting whatever her father asked of her. And now, what pressure she must be under from the council members who had their own agendas, pushing her to save the kingdom without thought of what was best for her personally. 
 
“Someone’s coming.” 
 
Steve nodded towards the house where a brown-haired woman was exiting the door and heading their way. As she grew near, Clint could see she was younger than him, closer in age to Shuri. Slim and willowy, she wore brown leather pants and a simple linen shirt; bracers wrapped both forearms. She smiled as she neared and called a greeting. 
 
“Good day! How can I help you?” 
 
“We’re looking for Bruce the Healer,” Phil said. “Sam Wilson sent us. Is this the right place?” 
 
“Oh.” The woman’s eyes widened as she looked at the assembled group, pausing on Phil and Shuri and Tony. “Yes, yes it is. Please, come in; I’ll take you to the house.”  
 
She opened the gate and motioned them to follow. 
 
“Bruce is knee-deep in a project in the lab; once he gets into something, he loses track of time. But he’ll be done soon; supper will be ready in less than a candle mark. You’re welcome to stay. Lance made curried stew,” she said. 
 
“There’s a lot of people here. Sam said Bruce lived alone?” Clint asked. He’d seen two figures in the stables and another come out of one of the cottages near the creek. 
 
“Oh, this is all relatively new,” she answered. “Bruce was by himself until a little over a year ago. I came last fall, a month into the new term of the Collegium. Just couldn’t stand it anymore, the politics and rules for us but not for them.” 
 
She pushed open the door and led them into an entry foyer. 
 
“I mean, this isn’t the life for everyone; it’s quiet and isolated and we all do chores, so those from noble families have to adjust. But it’s a damn sight better than hiding from the old male lecturers who think that because I’ve got breasts, I haven’t got a brain.” 
 
“Daisy, did you find out who was at the …” The woman came through one of the archways and stopped when she saw them. “Phil? Is that you?” 
 
“Betty?” Phil smiled as she looked at her old friend. “I thought Thaddeaus had sent you to live with your cousins.” 
 
“Is that what he’s telling everyone?”  Lady Elizabeth Ross crossed the tile floor and gave Phil a hug. “I finally had enough of his ultimatums and left; he’s completely cut me off and I couldn’t be happier.” 
 
Her blue eyes landed on Clint, and he smirked at her. Betty was one of the good ones, a noble with a caring heart and inquisitive brain. Unfortunately, she was the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the Imperial court, Lord Thaddeaus, an arrogant asshole who led his military unit with a violent and heavy hand. 
 
“Clint. I’m so happy you’re back.” 
 
She kissed him on the cheek, close enough that he could see the smattering of freckles across her nose. The last time he’d seen her, she had been far too thin with sharp elbows and a tiny waist, her diet tightly controlled. Porcelain pale, she’d lived in her father’s shadow, trying to avoid his legendary wrath. Now, her skin was sun-kissed, her curves fuller, and she had a sparkle in her eyes. Even her black hair seemed shinier, casually pulled back with tendrils curling around her face. 
 
“Wow,” Clint replied, pulling her into a hug. “You look amazing.” 
 
“Oh, thank you.” She blushed as she stepped back. “I’m working through all the ways to cook potatoes to see which one I like best. So far, it’s the fried ones Kamala makes in the iron skillet -- they have this wonderful tangy sauce and are so crisp …” 
 
Her jaw dropped and eyes widened as she looked over Clint’s shoulder. 
 
“Hey, Betts,” Tony said. “So, um, the whole dying thing? Not so …” 
 
Throwing her arms around Tony, she buried her face into the curve of his neck and squeezed. After a long moment, and some loud sniffles, she stepped back, composed herself, then punched Tony in the arm. 
 
“Don’t ever do that again,” she said. “Promise.” 
 
“Promise.” Tony winced at the look in her eyes. “I had to, Betts. It was Obediah and he would have kept trying.” 
 
“I knew it. He and Dad are thick as thieves with Lord Alexander,” she told him. “Those three’s ambitions know no bounds. But you didn’t come here to hear my problems; introduce me to your friends.” 
 
“Lady Elizabeth Ross …” Tony began. 
 
“Just Elizabeth now,” she cut in. “And Betty is fine.” 
 
“This is Lady Natasha Romanoff, a friend of Clint’s … yes, he actually has one … Captain Steve Rogers of the Imperial Guard, General Okoye and the Princess Shuri of Wakanda,” Tony finished with a flourish.
 
“Lady Natasha, Captain, General, Your Majesty,” she inclined her head towards Shuri. “What an august group of visitors. I’m afraid our hospitality is humble, but you are very welcome here and I hope we can offer assistance in whatever matter has brought you to our doorstep.” 
 
Betty had always been the most polished of all them, her sense of decorum honed by years of being her father’s hostess. Only a few had known that the veneer of a perfect lady hid an intelligent brain and a thirst for knowledge. If it weren’t for the streak of stubbornness she’d gotten from her mother, her spirit would have been crushed years ago. It did Clint’s heart good to see her so clearly thriving after throwing off her father’s oppressive expectations. 
 
“We’re looking for information on who created and cast the blood mutation spell that targeted my family,” Phil said. “We have some leads and are trying to trace the source.” 
 
“Of course. We’ve actually been working on it from our side of things.” Betty turned to the young woman who’d led them in. “Daisy, be a dear and run get Bobbi and Riri; Bobbi’s in the distillery working on the last batch of willow bark, and I think Riri is with Carol and Luke at the mill upgrading the water wheel. Have them meet us at the workshop.” 
 
“Will do.” Daisy nodded. “I’ll go through the kitchen and let Lance know we have guests.”
 
“Tell him we may need to push it back a bit; Bruce will want to explain things,” Betty turned and reached out for Phil’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “Come on, there’s a lot to show you.” 
 
The workshop turned out to be the rectangular building; the openings under the eaves made sense once they entered at the far end and saw the tables lined with glass beakers and bottles, pots and jars, dried and fresh herbs, metal parts for half-assembled machines, and books piled everywhere. Fresh air blew in with the breeze, and the odors wafted up and out. Ceiling fans circled lazily, seemingly under their own power, pulling up the hot air and pushing cooler back down. In the back corner was a large metal cylinder with pipes leading in at the bottom and up from the top, running along the beams and connecting to fans and tables. 
 
“Is that a boiler?” Tony immediately asked. “How did you solve the pressure differential? At that size?” 
 
“Size isn’t an issue,” Shuri jumped in. “Is that a hyperbolic tuner? I’ve been toying with one but the consistency isn’t acceptable.”
 
“You’ll have to ask Riri, she designed it,” Betty said. “I’m a healer, study the biology of the body; machines are hers and Luke’s domain.” 
 
She led them to a table where two men were working, heads down and eyes on a glass dish under a magnifying lens. One was sitting on a stool, his brown curls askew, wire-rimmed glasses lost in the mass of hair. He was carefully jotting notes into a journal, precise tiny numbers filling the page. The other was standing to the side, his hands waving as he cast a spell, his hair dark and straight, smoothed back from his face. Tall and slim, he was bent over, back curved as he focused on the drops of blood he was manipulating. 
 
If he hadn’t been so close, Clint would have missed the hesitation in Phil’s step, the way her nose flared as she breathed sharply. Her eyes locked on the taller man then flicked away. 
 
“Bruce.” Betty’s voice was quiet but firm. 
 
“One second.” The seated man held up his hand; his fingers were blackened with ink stains. The spell was finished in another moment; the caster straightened up and rolled his shoulders while Bruce peered at the blood in the dish.  “Let’s give it at least twelve hours before we run the next set of tests.” 
 
“Twenty-four,” the mage said, his voice hauntingly familiar to Clint. “Remember what happened last time. And we seem to have guests who require your presence.” 
 
“Fine. Twenty-four.” Bruce put down the quill and stretched his back. Then he turned, saw them, and jumped up from his stool. “Oh. Your Majesty. And Your Majesty. And … Tony Stark? I thought you were dead?” 
 
“Didn’t take.” Tony waved it off. “By the way, your research about using magnetic spells to treat disease? Revolutionary. I wish I’d thought of it.” 
 
“Um, thank you?” Bruce rubbed a hand through his hair, making it even messier. “Daisy has taken the lead on that project; she’s really good with waves and vibrations. Has this idea about how to predict earth shakes so we can evacuate people …” 
 
“Bruce.” Betty gently interrupted. “They’re here about our work with blood mutations.” 
 
“Ah, yes, that’s what we were just working on. We’re trying to see how many elements of the blood we’d need to isolate to cause catastrophic failure. Loki’s got a very deft hand at separating the strands.” He motioned to the other man. “All the results suggest the spell was less about mutation than it was infection.” 
 
“It’s much easier to insert alien material and let the body naturally react than to change the inherent nature of the structure.” Loki stepped around the table and Clint recognized him. A shiver traveled up his spine as he remembered the feeling of humiliation and the laughter. What were the odds of a Prince of Asgard being here of all places? Loki reached out a hand and offered it to Shuri. “Loki Laufeyson, at your service, Princess Shuri. And this must be General Okoye; my brother Thor speaks highly of your prowess in combat.” 
 
“He is a formidable fighter himself,” Okoye acknowledged. 
 
“Tony Stark,” Tony jumped in. “We met in Madripoor once, I believe, at the Winter Carnival.” 
 
“I’m afraid much of that trip is lost in a haze; I was going through the drink-my-troubles-away phase of my youth.” Loki smiled. “But this handsome fellow wasn’t with you; him I’d remember.” 
 
“Captain Steve Rogers, Imperial Guard,” Steve answered. 
 
“Ah, here to protect Her Majesty, I presume.” Loki bowed Phil’s way. “You have been through much, my dear, more than most could bear; I am glad to see you.” 
 
She stiffened ever so slightly as he went in for a hug; Clint started forward and noticed Steve did the same. But they both stopped when Phil sighed and relaxed, returning the gesture. 
 
“And Clinton.” Loki was suddenly looking right at him. “I owe you an apology. There is no excuse for what I did. All I can say is I was very angry at the world back then, and I was taking it out on anyone and everyone. You didn’t deserve to be the butt of a poorly conceived joke.”
 
“Damn right I didn’t,” Clint mumbled; Natasha patted him on the shoulder. Loki’s eyes shifted to her and then narrowed. 
 
“Ah, I see.” Loki gave her a slight bow just like he had for Phil and Shuri. “I mean you and your companions no harm, Lady Widow; I am only here to determine how the spell worked and stop others from replicating it.”
 
“And find the person who created it,” Betty added. “Whoever it is has violated the primal rule of healing magic and should be stopped from doing any more damage.” 
 
“You said infection,” Phil said. “As a disease or a poison?” 
 
“Exactly so,” Bruce replied. “Like putting hemlock in a drink or poisoning a well with pox-ridden bodies. The blood warrior program focused on changing the basic structure of the blood; those people died as side-effects of the mutation. The only intention of this spell was to kill; it’s a blood poison magnified by the order of a thousand.” 
 
“We heard of a scholar who studied poisons, worked for Baron Von Strucker and his crazy experiments trying to enhance blood traits,” Clint told them. “Went by the code name of Sinister.”
 
“Strucker was a madman,” Loki spat out. “Took a butcher knife to a delicate operation. All of his subjects died in horrible ways. Anyone who worked for him was the lowest of low.” 
 
“I knew some people at the Collegium who researched antidotes and naturally occurring poisons.” Bruce thought about it. “Betts, do you remember that one guy who left in the middle of the third term? The one who grew his own foxglove and distilled it himself?” 
 
“I was studying for my exams then: I barely noticed you, much less anyone else,” Betty answered. “Did he work for my father and Alexander? Too many see their patronage as a badge of honor.” 
 
“I took your father’s money,” Loki said with a laugh. “He pours it out like water to anyone who might make him new weaponized spells. Bought a lovely little place on the bay in Triafyrd and gave him some nonsense about illusions that make people think they’re seeing multiples of the caster. Pierce thought it would be very useful and actually believed a mage could do it.”
 
“Bobbi might remember; she was doing her speciality training that term,” Betty suggested. “I sent Daisy to get her.” 
 
As if on cue, the door opened and Daisy led the way, a group of people behind her. Lady Barbara Morse Clint recognized immediately; like him, she was a poor relative taken in by a wealthier branch of the family. They’d spent a lot of time together at court events, commiserating over their lot in life. With her was a statuesque blonde with muscular arms and the stride of someone trained for battle. A tall man with a bald head and wide chest wore a blacksmith’s apron over his clothes. The other two women were younger than Shuri, one with darker skin, the other with an olive complexion. 
 
“Well, look who finally decided to come home.” Bobbi punched him in the arm then gave him a fierce hug. “I’ve actually missed your brand of trouble.” 
 
“Aw, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Clint grinned. “I thought you were going to cut a swath through Triafyrd and make the court sit up and take notice.” 
 
“Tried it, realized it was a waste of time, and decided to do something useful instead.” She waved a hand around the workshop. “So here I am.” 
 
“Bobbi,” Betty called. “Do you remember a student at the Collegium who worked with foxglove? He was in Bruce’s class.” 
 
Bobbi tilted her head as she thought. “There was Cassandra Romulus. She grew foxglove and belladonna in pots in her room, said they were soothing. Had terrible taste in men.” 
 
“We’re looking for a brown haired man who studied poisons,” Phil told her. “Went to work for Baron Von Strucker along with a woman who specialized in animal traits. They called her Viper and him Sinister.” 
 
“Oh, Viper I know. Ophelia was her name, came from Sarkissia. Worked with anti-venoms, supposedly, but she had a real thing for poisonous snakes. Had this theory about humans having animalistic traits, blood connections to various species,” Bobbi said. “Got sent down from school; rumor has it, she was doing unauthorized experiments. She’s definitely the type to work for a greasy bastard like Strucker.”
 
“Ophelia. Blonde hair, very aggressive, wore emerald green all the time?” Betty tapped her fingers on the table, a rat-a-tat-tat as her nails hit the polished wood. “Didn’t she set her cap for Sue’s brother, Johnny, showed up naked in his bed one night?” 
 
“No, that was Amora,” Loki said. “She was taking a break from her obsession with Thor while he was gone on a diplomatic trip up north.” 
 
“Amora could certainly be persistent,” Bruce added. “Erik Lehnsherr tossed her out of his carriage at least three times.” 
 
“Ophelia had dark hair and usually wore black. Had a thing for scale mail,” Bobbi said. 
 
“Oh, yes! Some special light material she had made. Always got top marks in class, sat in back by that guy, the Admiral’s son, named … ” Betty paused. “Nathaniel. That was it.“
 
“Essex. Nathaniel Essex,” Bruce provided. “Quiet, kept to himself, was always in the special book section of the library. Brilliant, Professor Trecian said, but quite odd, which, considering the rest of us, says a lot. Was more comfortable with his plants that people. I saw his room once; it was a virtual greenhouse. Ophelia was one of the few he’d actually talk to.” 
 
“He’s left-handed.” Bobbi’s statement drew them up short. “Some of the Church healers didn’t want to work with him.” 
 
“Sinister can be translated as ‘of the left’,” Phil said. “Would this Nathaniel work for someone like Strucker?” 
 
“If he was free to study what he wanted, I don’t think he’d care who was paying,” Bruce replied. “He was more about the art than the politics of healing. I honestly can’t remember what happened to him. Things got chaotic there at the end.” 
 
“He left sometime before the start of fourth term,” Bobbi said. “Jen moved into his old room to get away from Emma’s string of lovers. Don’t know why or where, he just wasn’t there.” 
 
“Okay, well that’s a start; at least we have names to track down.” Steve interjected.
 
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Bobbi asked. “Maybe introductions are in order.” 
 
What followed was a flurry of names that went with new faces.  The blonde was Carol and had been an Imperial Guard; she and Steve began comparing where they’d trained and been stationed. The bald man was Luke; he and his wife ran the smithy and were expecting their first child. The two younger girls were Riri and Kamala; within minutes of finding out Riri had designed the steam cylinder, Shuri and Tony had decamped from the main group, dragged Luke along with them, and were tossing numbers and words like pressure and volume and output. Clint stepped out of the way of the mages and healers, standing with Steve and Natasha as everyone chattered on about markers in the blood and infection versus mutation. 
 
“Do you understand any of that?” Clint asked Natasha after a long-winded explanation from Loki about inherited traits. 
 
“I can follow about two-thirds of it,” she replied. “But they’re starting to repeat themselves and I’m getting hungry. Didn’t someone mention stew?” 
 
It was Betty who suggested they adjourn to eat and they all relocated to a large hall in the main house where Lance, Bobbi’s lover and partner, served up a thick broth with chunks of meat and vegetables in simple bowls along with crusty bread. The healers congregated around the head of one table, the mages at the other end, and the artificers staked out a second bench; Tony floated between all of them, dropping in and out of conversations. The remnant, as Carol laughingly called Natasha, Clint, Steve, Lance, and herself, watched the back and forth and drank heady beer that tasted of wheat and malt. 
 
Through it all, Clint kept one eye on Phil; he worried that all the talk of the spell might be too much. Everywhere they went it was “I’m sorry” and “my condolences,” platitudes that kept the loss at the forefront of the conversation. Oh, they meant well and obviously cared, but so much of Phil’s energy went to soothing the others. She hadn’t had a moment to herself since the handfasting -- probably before he got back if what he’d seen in the days leading up to going to the lodge were the norm -- and putting on a brave front was going to send her crashing down eventually. 
 
And on top of all that, she had to be making contingency plans, constantly worried about Coulfell’s border and the safety of her people, the specter of getting pregnant and needing to find someone else to fulfill the father role. Just thinking of her having to make that choice fanned his frustration and lit a spark of anger. All this chasing down of the spell caster needed to happen, but Phil’s future was hanging in the balance as well. 
 
“You all right?” Natasha asked. “You’re staring.” 
 
Clint jerked his eyes away and realized he was clenching his fists. With a deep exhale, he loosened his fingers and sat back. 
 
“I know this is important,” he said. “But it feels like we’re wasting time; we’ve been lucky so far and our luck is going to run out sooner rather than later.” 
 
“We need to make some decisions about the end goal, where we’re going and our priorities. Which is most pressing? An heir? Finding the caster? Or finding who paid for it?” 
 
“It mIght be time to have those other conversations,” Steve added. 
 
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Are you finally ready to stop running and face the truth? It would be for the best; this is going to get worse before it gets better and secrets have a way of coming out at the worst time. Best to deal with them now.” 
 
“Says the woman whose secrets have secrets,” Clint grumbled, mostly because he knew she was right like always. It was frustrating how damn perceptive she was. 
 
“And I have paid for keeping them,” she answered. “But you don’t have to; it’s right there, Clint. Reach out and take it. Don’t let fear stop you from having something good in your life.” 
 
“I have you.” He smiled and let his love for her show through. “But, yeah, you’re right. Just have to figure out how to get her alone for a bit.” 
 
“Leave that to me,” Natahsha promised. “Steve, set the guard rotation so I have first watch.” 
 
It looked like the time had finally come.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,

in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,

staring back from anyone’s face, from the shape of a cloud,

from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me

as I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are

on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream.

“You”

by Carol Ann Duffy

The talk continued long past sundown and light glowed around the compound, powered by the steam boiler that Tony was so fascinated by. Carol had taken charge of organizing their sleeping arrangements earlier; she, it seemed, also oversaw the security measures, of which there were more than met the eye. Wards lined the outer rock wall that circled the area and were etched above every window and door. The workshop had three layers including fire dampeners and an outer shield to contain miscast spells. Even the bathing house near the creek had warming glyphs and warning sigils. Phil got the feeling that everyone there was either running or hiding from something in their past; what had started as a hermit’s retreat was now a sanctuary.
 
At some point, she saw Steve and Carol conferring on the watch rotation. While Bruce was explaining invisible waves from the sun that affect human bodies, Carol gathered up those who would be standing guard, handed out lanterns that glowed without candles, and left for a walk around the perimeter. Only Natasha stayed behind, sitting on a stool with eyes on the doors and windows, and the growing unease in the pit of Phil’s stomach tightened. Needing to know, she left the group watching Bruce’s demonstration and approached Natasha. 
 
“You think something’s going to happen?” Phil asked, keeping her voice quiet. “Doubling guard rotations?” 
 
“Taking precautions,” she replied. “But we shouldn’t stay long.” 
 
“We can still be tracked by regular means.” Phil nodded; she’d been thinking about the possibility. “And we don’t know all the players, so it’s hard to predict who might come looking.” 
 
Natasha narrowed her eyes and stared at Phil for a heartbeat. “You know much more than you let on, Your Majesty.”
 
“Normal is invisible.” Phil repeated the oft-heard proverb. “Not too pretty, not too ugly. Not too smart, not too dumb. Being forgettable is a talent unto itself.”
 
“Indeed it is,” Natasha agreed. “Although sometimes it’s the opposite; being the center of attention draws eyes away from what you don’t want them to see.” 
 
“Kicho was good at that. Beautiful, artistic, creative -- no one noticed her intelligence much less gave her ideas any weight.” She smiled at the memory of Kicho in her court finery, leading powerful nobles by their noses and how they thanked her for it.

“You liked her.” 
 
“Yes. I was lucky to have such a caring step-mother, and my brothers shared her talents, thankfully. The Coulson line is notoriously mundane.” Phil stopped herself. “Was. Was notoriously mundane.” 
 
“The lineage lives in you.” Natasha’s voice was soft. “And any children you may have, Imperial heir or not. You are the Queen; it’s ultimately your decision.” 
 
“You are the second person to remind me of that today.” Phil  wondered if they were all in on it together, pushing her to deal with her emotions.  “Although Tony’s advice should always be taken with a grain of salt; look at the tension between him and Steve.” 
 
“I’m fairly sure Captain Rogers has plans to deal with his Lord Stark problem,” Natasha replied. “For the best, I think, to work things out before the next crisis hits, don’t you think?” 
 
“And here I thought Widow’s were trained to covertly manipulate; that was fairly blunt.” 
 
“Subtle is not a word Clint understands, so I’ve had to go with different methods.” Natasha shrugged. “I usually end up having to hit him really hard to get his attention.” 
 
Before Phil could answer, the door opened and the group came in; Clint’s eyes scanned the room before settling on the two of them and making a straight line to where they were. 
 
“The security measures are amazing,” he practically gushed. “They have hidey holes, weapon caches, silent zones, countermeasures … I’m pretty sure they could fend off a mid-sized attack with just a handful of fighters.” 
 
“Carol is a Danvers,” Natasha said. “As in descendent of Wing Squad General Randalle.”
 
“Ah.” Phil knew the pressure a legacy like that could bring. “I bet she and Rogers get along well.” 
 
“They were practically salivating about the virtues of small henges as charge breaks,” Clint told her. 
 
She laughed. “Oh, gods, save me from thorough people.” 
 
“Phil was just telling me how tired she was.” Natasha simply announced. “Since I’m on first watch, why don’t you walk her back to the main house.” 
 
An awkward silence fell; Clint looked confused at first and then a blush rose up his neck.
 
“You don’t have to,” Phil told him, giving him an out. “If you’d rather stay …” 
 
“No. I don’t understand a third of what everyone’s nattering on about,” he said with a glare at Natasha. “I don’t mind, if you really want to go.” 
 
“I do. At this point it’s all blurring together. I’ll wait for the executive summary in the morning.” 
 
“Well, then, shall we?” Clint offered his arm and Phil slipped her hand around his elbow. 
 
She realized she was trembling when he covered her fingers with his own, squeezing gently; now that the moment was here, she couldn’t seem to catch her breath, her chest tight with anxiety over how Clint would react. The cool air of the evening helped clear her head; she had faced arranged marriages, arrogant nobles, and even the threat of battle, but this, she had to admit to herself, was the hardest thing she’d ever done.
 
“Um, can we …?” Clint paused where the path forked and nodded towards the creek. “You know. Talk?” 
 
His eyes were shadowed but his mouth was in a slant of light and she could see him catch his lip with his teeth, a sign of his own nervousness.  
 
“Yes. I think it’s time we do,” she said. 
 
He led her across the field and through the orchard, past the cottages, then to a row of trees by the water’s edge, bowed branches falling across the ground and dipping into the shallows. The white flowers glowed faintly, alight with the faintest hint of purple that made them look like a curtain of moonbeams. 
 
“Luminescent weeping willows.” She reached out a hand and felt the soft petals; her fingers came away with a sprinkle of dots on the tips. “I've only seen them once before, on Illayai.” 
 
“There’s something in the creek, Carol said. They make the tree glow but only when the willow is blooming. Has to do with this being a volcanic island.” Parting the branches, he flashed his lantern inside, showing her the bench by the trunk. 
 
“It’s a protective circle,” Clint told her as he let the curtain of blossoms drop behind them. “No one can hear or detect us here. They have them all over the compound. Quite ingenious; you should have some in the palace and on the grounds.” 
 
“I could use them to hide from the Mayor.” She sat down and patted the seat next to her. “And some of the council members. Harald and Alstair can be quite insistent when they think they’re sure they’re right.” 
 
He turned the lantern off and put it on the ground by their feet; it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust but soon everything was awash in a lilac tint. Enclosed in a circle of magic and nature, she could hear the bubbling of the creek and the rustling of the leaves in the breeze. 
 
“It’s peaceful,” she murmured, settling back against the bench. “Yes, I definitely need a few places like this to retreat to when things get crazy.” 
 
“How big has that mountain laurel grown in your grandmother’s garden? I used to hide there all the time when we were playing seeker. No one ever found me.” Clint clasped his hands in his lap to keep from touching her. 
 
“That’s where you were?” Phil chuckled. “They walked right by, calling your name and you never said a word.” 
 
“You know me, I wanted to win. Will always hid in the stables, and the twins climbed into the rafters, so they were easy to find. Tophe was anywhere he could drag a book with him. Getting around unseen was something I was good at,” he said. “I learned every single passageway and a few ways in and out that I don’t think even your father knew about.” 
 
“Is that how you managed to disappear so fast? Kicho always wondered; by the time she corralled the twins in the middle of the chaos, you’d be long gone,” Phil asked. 
 
“The passages, air shafts, and chimneys. The stones weren’t flush so there were plenty of handholds. Winnie hated it when I came home covered in soot.” 
 
“So, that day, when you and Will came to my room and saw me in my wedding dress. That’s what you did to avoid talking about it?” 
 
Never let it be said that Philomena Coulson wasn’t courageous; it took every ounce of bravery to toss that question into the air between them. She thought for a second that Clint was going to deny it, saw the concern flicker across his beautiful blue-grey eyes, but then he turned to her and his mask fell, all his emotions laid bare in the luminous glow. 
 
“The fireplace in your sitting room. Joins halfway up with the one in your study; big enough I have to go up horizontally,” he said. “Gods, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Seeing you like that, it hit home that you were going to marry Grant and I couldn’t …” he drew in a breath. “Who told you?” 
 
“Tony got Tophe drunk and made him spill the truth of why you left.” Her hands were sweating and she rubbed them along her thighs. “He told me this afternoon. I didn’t know. I mean, I didn’t think you were, that you could … not about me.” Clint opened his mouth, but Phil plowed on, determined to get it all out in the open. “Because if you did, then I’d want … and I couldn’t, not when I thought I had to accept the marriage, and it would be even harder to let Grant touch me if I let myself think of being with you.” 
 
“Phil.” Soft and honest, hearing her name from Clint’s lips was almost too much. 
 
“No, I need to say this,” she told him. “Tony made me realize that I’ve always done what they told me. A slave to duty, he called Steve, and it’s true of me too. I just did what they wanted. My father was a good man and he loved me, but he was part of the system that sees noble women as chess pieces to move about the board. Maybe I didn’t have to marry Grant. Maybe we could have made an alliance with, I don’t know, Lehnsherr Woods or Frosthill. I didn’t even ask for an alternative, just walked right into that toxic household, knowing how terrible Christian and Grant were. You’d think I’d learn from that, but no. As soon as another ‘give up your bodily autonomy’ solution was proposed, I turned right around and agreed to be the Emperor’s broodmare.” 
 
Now that the words were rolling off her tongue, it was getting easier. Hearing it out loud made it seem more real, move valid, than when she’d kept her thoughts hidden. 
 
“You insisted on the handfasting rather than marriage vows,” Clint reminded her. “And you always have plans within plans. Hell, I’m sure you have at least four options right now to protect Coulfell’s borders and I bet some of them don’t involve Garrett or an heir.”
 
“Seven,” she admitted. “But three are terrible and two others involve pissing off at least half the Council.” 
 
“See?” His smile was just a little bit crooked and, gods above, it made Phil’s heart flip in her chest. “Your plans, even when they’re terrible, are better than everyone else’s.” 
 
“You just love it when things blow up,” she said. “It’s not fun …” 
 
“... until someone breaks some dishes,” he finished. “Come on, Phil, which one of those plans is Bertie and Dwan worthy?” 
 
“They’d vote for number three: telling the Emperor to fuck off, kicking Garrett out, and taking care of ourselves.” She’d thought about it; Tony was right about the Council members and nobles. They all had the resources to build up the guard. “The problem is timing, training new recruits before one of the self-serving idiots to the north tests the waters … and pissing off most of the nobles when I raise their assessments.” 
 
“I like it. Imagine the Emperor’s face when he got the ‘sorry, no’ reply.” Clint chuckled. “But Steve says that Wunagan is so desperate for another heir that he’s pretty much willing to accept any lineage, so he might come back with a counter-offer, even station a guard unit on the promise of a future marriage.” 
 
“Which is why option two is increasingly viable.” She was really going to say it. Out loud. To Clint. “Sam said basic lineage spells can’t tell the difference between close levels of relatives. If that’s true, then all I need is someone with a  semi-decent connection to the Imperial family.” 
 
Something shuttered closed in Clint’s eyes, and she immediately wanted it back. 
 
“You’ve made a list already, haven’t you? Of course you have. Probably ranked by how much Imperial blood cross-referenced with their intelligence,” he said. “You don’t need Garrett.” 
 
 “I didn’t sleep with him, and I don’t need a list; I have plan seven, an alternate to number two. It’s a recent one; something Tony said made me think it might be possible.” She braced her palms on the bench and wrapped her fingers under the edge to give her something to hold onto. “Rather than pick someone at random, I could go to someone I know, someone I care about, someone I’ve known for years and trust …” 
 
“Don’t.” Clint’s plea drew her up short. “Don’t say it unless you really mean it. I can’t, Phil. I can’t have you, touch you, get to finally love you the way you deserve and then have to give you up. I know the safety and health of the realm is important, but I’m a damn selfish man. Once I know what you taste like? How soft your skin is under my hands? If you close your eyes when you shatter? I could never watch you be with someone else after that, no matter what good it would do for Coulfell. It was hard enough to not punch Garrett in the nose or go kick the Emperor’s ass for even asking it.”
 
Static filled her brain as the words fell into her ears, twisting and repeating until all she could hear was touch and taste and shatter. Clint wanted her. Her, Philomena, the older daughter who was far from a beauty and too intelligent to capture the court’s attention. The girl who’d rather read history than play flirting games, who planned and organized, and had been too caught up in sacrificing herself to realize maybe she was worthy of love. 
 
“Hey.” Calloused fingers slid over her skin, cupping her chin and turning her head.
 
“I didn’t think you’d …” The words were a whisper. “You want to be … with me … long term …” 
 
“Yeah, surprised me too. Turns out, when it comes to you, I’m a forever sort of guy. Kind of want the whole thing. Marriage, kids, growing old together …” 
 
“Yes.” 
 
Quick and sharp, before she could stop herself, she blurted the word into the charged air between them. 
 
“Yes?” 
 
He didn’t believe she’d agree; with all the years of putting her responsibilities first, she couldn’t blame him. 
 
“Yes.” Her voice gained strength. “Plan eight. We keep it quiet for a while, at least until the lineage tests come back and the Emperor is satisfied, and then we introduce it slowly. You can’t be king, of course -- Kicho only barely was approved to be Queen consort, so we don’t bother with that. Plenty of titles we can use instead. The Council won’t like it; Alstair will think it gives Winnifred too much power, and Harald will be annoyed it doesn’t give him leverage at court, but Mack and Melinda will be over the moon …” 
 
“Phil.” 
 
He tugged her forward, tipping his face until his forehead touched hers and their noses bumped. Any coherent thoughts she had slipped away as she felt the warm air of Clint’s exhale brush across her lips. His thumb circled over her cheek as he whispered, each word a tender promise. 
 
“Breathe with me.”
 
Her heart was racing, thoughts rolling even faster. 
 
“Slow down.” 
 
Following his lead, she slowed her inhale, matched his pace, focused on the feel of his fingertips on her skin. Bit-by-bit, she let go of responsibility, obligation, the overwhelming need to have everything figured out 
 
“There we go. That’s it.” 
 
In the quiet of the moment, surrounded by glowing blossoms, shut off from the world, all that mattered was the syncing of their hearts. The worries were still there, but distant; the how and why and whens floating away down the stream. 
 
“Let’s just take this one step at a time, start with the important bits.”  
 
Clint moved away and Phil opened her eyes; he was right there, his face filling her whole line of sight. Crooked little soft smile and ever-changing eyes that reflected the light. His hand slid along her jaw and his fingers tangled in some of the loose curls around her face, stroking the silky strands. 
 
“I love you. I have for a long time, and I want to be with you, if you’ll have me.” 
 
“Clint.” It was her turn to be speechless. 
 
“Whatever form that takes, we’ll work it out,” he continued. “To hell with the Council or the Emperor or anybody else. You and me. Together.” 
 
“Yes.” 
 
All she had to do was tilt her head, lean the last hairs breath, and bring her lips to his in a soft kiss. No pressure, a light brush, more a hint of what was on the offering. Then she pulled back and  gazed at the wonder on his face. 
 
“Stay with me tonight,” she asked. 
 
All the complexity melted away into the simple request. She wanted him, he wanted her, and that was enough.
 
“Yes.” 
 
He captured her mouth with his, slipping his fingers into her hair, hand cradling the nape of her neck. No hesitancy, no doubt, a validation of a long suppressed desire. Short little kisses at first, quick breaths, then longer, slower explorations. HIs thumb stroked across her cheek as his tongue darted along the seam of her mouth; she slipped her palm along one of his thighs, the taut muscle beneath her fingers. She’d been kissed before, but here, now, in this place, with this man, something woke inside, a spasm of her heart and ache in her breast. 
 
“I want to lay you down on soft sheets and take you apart.” 
 
Breathy and rough, his voice made her tremble at the promise ladened on each word, and she saw his eyes were blown wide. 
 
“Then let’s go.” 
 
Standing, he offered a hand then picked up the lantern. Passing through the branches felt like waking from a dream; the air was noticeably cooler and she could hear voices from other buildings, a reminder that the world still existed. But Clint’s hand was warm against hers and her lips still tingled with the phantom pressure of his. Flushed skin and elevated heart beat told her it had all been real. 
 
As they wound along the well-worn path, the windows of the main house cast rectangles of light on the ground. The cottages nearby were dark except for one bobbing lantern that was moving their direction. The figure came into focus as it neared, waving at the two of them and calling to them.. 
 
“Your Majesty!” Daisy sped up and met them where the trails came together. “I’m glad I caught you; I’ve moved your things into the middle cottage and it’s all ready.”
 
“I thought I was staying in the dormitory,” Phil asked. 
 
“Oh, yeah, things shifted around.” She motioned for them to follow and kept talking as she headed back the way she’d come. “Lance is taking an early guard rotation and then he’s going to start working on breakfast -- he’s making his famous apple berry compote stuffed pancakes which are to die for -- so he’s already sacking out in the room behind the kitchen because Bobbi’s probably not going to leave the workshop. That’s why there’s so many couches in there; it’s not unusual to take short breaks to sleep when we’re working on a big problem. So their cottage is going to be empty anyway and Natasha suggested we move you and Clint could watch over you.” 
 
She paused at the doorway. 
 
“I just recharged the wards; they’re tied into the whole compound’s web. We use the same vibration code as the collegium and the university.” 
 
Phil nodded. “I’m familiar.” 
 
“Good.” She let them inside. “There’s fresh water in the ewers, a bottle of wine, and a basket of  goodies from the kitchen if you get hungry. The bathing room is in the back; it’s better than the ones at the Court, all fitted with Riri and Luke’s inventions. Speaking of,  Luke and Jessica are next door; the cottage on the other side is Loki’s and he’ll probably be in the workshop all night too so go left if you need to find someone.” 
 
“Thank you,” Phil told her. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” 
 
“I wanted to,” Daisy said. “I’m a foundling, grew up in Church homes, ended up in Fr. Gathlin’s in Ward’s Watch. When you were Princess of the Ward, you funded free testing for any of us who wanted to try for admission to the Collegium. Covered my tuition and got me through two years of study.  So I owe you a debt that I hope to repay one day.” 
 
“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear.” Phil smiled. “I think everyone should have a chance, and now look at you! Bruce said you’re the best in your field. Maybe tomorrow you can tell me more about waves and vibrations.” 
 
“I’d love that.” Her smile was so bright, she practically beamed. “And let me know if you need anything else tonight.” 
 
She left, shutting the door behind her and, just like that, they were alone.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

You do not have to be good

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

Love what it loves.

“

Wild Geese

” by Mary Oliver

Clint surveyed the cottage as he pulled off his boots and left them beside the door next to Phil’s. The main room was just big enough for the two-person table near a wall of cabinets and shelves, a small fireplace that was lit and warming the space, and the two comfortable chairs in front of it. An archway on the left, covered by a hanging curtain, led to the bathing room while the one on the right opened onto a comfortable bed covered with a handmade quilt. The whole thing was very cozy and intimate, a perfect space to convene after the conversation they’d just had.
 
He still couldn’t quite believe it. After working up his courage to confess, Clint barely got a word in edgewise;  Phil wanted him, had always wanted him, and she’d kissed him. Gods and garters, she’d offered to fight the council and tell the Emperor to fuck off to be with him. It was heady stuff, and Clint was still reeling. His heart was celebrating by beating quick time in his chest, and his mind was racing with the new possibilities. All he needed to do was convince himself he was worthy of someone as amazing and wonderful as her. 
 
“Cozy,” Phil said as she untied the silk scarf and pulled it free from her hair; she ducked her head into the sleeping area and caught a view of herself in the small vanity mirror. “Oh, I look a mess! Why didn’t anyone tell me?” 
 
Her hair was a tangle of curls, her cheeks reddened from the sun and the flush of their kisses. The colorful patterned shirt had slipped up, revealing a thin strip of skin above the waistband of her pants as she bent over to rummage in her pack. The tight fit of the leather left little to the imagination as it hugged her ass and the curve of her thighs. Mess wasn’t the word Clint would use to describe her; she was breathtakingly beautiful like this. 
 
“Here, let me.” Clint reached for the comb she drew out of a pocket. There was a small mirror with the vanity beside the bed; he led Phil over and had her settle on the stool in front of it. 
 
“I should have put it up while we were at sea. The wind always plays havoc with it.” She tried to run her fingers through some of the strands around her face, but they caught on some snarls. “I think the dye is starting to fade.” 
 
“Usually lasts a day or so; Nat has some cream that strips it out in a few minutes, but it leaves her hair really dry and damaged.” Clint started in the back, picking up a small section and working from the ends up to the crown to smooth out the snarls. “I joke that’s why she keeps me around, because I know how to deal with it.” 
 
“You used to always do Victoria’s; she had a hell of a time finding a maid who didn’t pull too hard.” Phil relaxed as he combed. “She was right about your magic hands.”
 
“I wanted her to like me,” Clint said. “I heard Harald Simons and Alstair Fitz talking one time about how Aunt Winnie should put me to work to earn my keep, and I got fixated that she’d send me away if I wasn’t useful, so I learned to muck the stables, curry horses, make a damn good roast chicken, and sew my own clothes.” 
 
“Winifred would never do that,” Phil objected, catching his eyes in the mirror. “She loves you and Victoria beyond distraction.” 
 
“I know,” Clint assured her. “But I was a gangly kid who tripped over his own feet and couldn’t stay out of trouble and people never let me forget I was the poor relation. Tori found me asleep in a broom closet; I’d been cleaning the ballroom floors before one of Winnie’s fetes.” 
 
“I bet she set you straight,” Phil chuckled. 
 
“Oh, yes. She told Winnie and I got a long lecture then some very big hugs. The hugs were the worst punishment for a twelve-year-old boy.” He picked up another section and started combing it. “At least I had the sense to not try Bertie’s tactic of going boneless; Winnie would have killed me if I pulled that.” 
 
“Oh, Gods, that was so annoying; Dad had to take him into his study and give him a lecture about why it wasn’t fitting for him to drop to the ground whenever Aunt Titiana tried to hug him.” She smiled, but it was a bittersweet slash of lips that fell away quickly. Fingering the silk scarf, her eyes went distant. “I should still be standing vigil and wearing black. All this running around, dying my hair …” 
 
“The color of your clothes has nothing to do with grieving.” He dropped a hand to her shoulder and ran his palm along the curve of her neck. “And ancient church rituals certainly aren’t the only way to remember them. What you’re doing, chasing down the people who did this, that’s a way to honor your family.” 
 
“I know, I just …” She sighed. “All this, Wilson and Barnes, Rogers, Shuri, Nakia, and Okoye, Tony, Betty, Bobbi, Banner.  Natasha. You. It’s … good.” 
 
Ah. That Clint understood. He swept her hair away from her face then leaned down closer to her ear. 
 
“You can feel happy and still miss them,” he told her. ”And you look amazing in silk, the way it falls across your skin.” 
 
Her eyes closed and she exhaled. Clint kept working on the snarls and let the silence spin out. Once her tresses were smooth, he continued, gathering the silken strands up only to let them fall again. As he did, he ran his fingertips through, lightly massaging her scalp. 
 
“Actually, I really liked the corset Wanda gave you.” He dropped his voice and kept the volume low. “How it hugged your waist and held up those perfect breasts.” 
 
She scoffed, a tiny almost silent laugh. “You always call me perfect, but I'm far from it. My breasts are too small, my waist too wide, my nose off-center. Believe me, the court tongue-waggers have a list of my imperfections.” 
 
“Those old crones who pass judgment? They’re wrong.” He tucked her hair behind her ears  before he slipped his hands along her shoulders then down her back, sliding them around until he could cup each breast. The softness filled his palms and spilled over his fingers. “See? They’re a perfect fit.” 
 
A sharp intake of breath and her eyes flew open. 
 
“It’s easy to do this.” He ran his thumb in circles around her areola; her lips parted as she exhaled. “And this.” A light brush over the nipple made it pucker; she gave a breathy moan. “Or this.” He rolled the hardness between his thumb and forefinger; she leaned back against his chest. “And maybe even a little of this.” He pinched lightly. 
 
“Oh. Yes.” Phil was watching intently in the mirror, following the path of his fingers over the soft silk. 
 
“A good mouthful too.” He squeezed gently and she arched her back, pressing more firmly into his hand. “I’d love to see you in just that corset, with nothing else.” One hand skimmed down her side, following the line of her waist and hip. “Gods, the little indent where your hip meets your thigh? The perfect spot to hold onto while I kiss every inch of you.” 
 
“Clint.” She breathed his name as his hand skated along the line where the curve of her belly met the fullness of her thigh until he dipped in between to graze her mons. 
 
“Those embroidered roses and all that skin.” He could feel his cock hardening as his hand slipped lower. “Breasts held high, your cheeks flushed, legs spread, already wet for me.” 
 
He rubbed along the inseam, pushing it into her sensitive folds,  circling and rocking and pressing with the heel of his palm as he delved, watching for the little tells of her reactions. When she made a little sound in her throat and her eyes widened just a fraction, he narrowed in on the spot, repeating the motion again and again while he rolled her nipple tighter with his other hand. 
 
“So soft and so sensitive.” Leaning down, he breathed along the shell of her ear, keeping his voice to a whisper. “Do you touch yourself like this, Phil? Lay in your bed and make yourself wet and desperate?” 
 
“Yes.” She exhaled the word as she arched her back and lifted her hips to give him better access. “And I imagine it’s your fingers  ,,, ah.” 
 
Nuzzling into the hollow behind her ear, Clint sensed the growing tension, knew she was getting close. Another circle and pinch as he kissed along her neck then she bucked beneath him as she came. 
 
“There we go; that’s the first one.” Clint held her as she shivered her way through the ripples of pleasure. 
 
“First?” The word was unsteady. 
 
“Mmmm,” Clint hummed into her skin as he began to untie the shirt’s knot at her waist. “At least three in this first round. Maybe two more later when we’re half-asleep and I can slip inside you so easily it’s like dreaming.” 
 
“Oh. That’s … I haven’t …”  She looked surprised again and he chuckled. 
 
“Then it’s high time you did.” 
 
He tugged her up and turned her so he could unwind the ties and slide her shirt off her shoulders, taking a moment to drink in the expanse of skin and full plump breasts. He couldn’t resist dragging his thumbs around the dusty pink areolas. 
 
“Beautiful,” he murmured.  
 
Then he kissed her, felt the little gasp as her nipples rubbed against the silk of his shirt. Sliding his hands around, he cupped the curve of her ass and gave a little squeeze to hear her moan. As he swiped his tongue along her lower lip, she tugged at his shirt, freeing it from his waistband.  With a chuckle, he broke contact, helped her pull it over his head and tossed it on the chair. Her eyes roved over him; her hand came to rest in the middle of his chest, fingers stroking the light smattering of hair, catching on an old scar. 
 
“Perfect.” Her smile was full, her lips were red, and her eyes were full of mischief. “I like that shirt. Shows off your arms. I used to get so distracted watching you in the practice yard. Your biceps feature in some of my steamiest fantasies.”
 
He laughed because this was Phil, strong and resilient, a survivor. Reaching out to grab a chance at happiness, facing head on the truths of the world. 
 
“Oh, do they now?” 
 
He picked her up without hesitation, hands on the hinge of her thighs; she immediately wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed. Sitting her on the edge of the soft mattress, he unlaced her pants; she wiggled and he pulled and then she was naked, her elbows braced on the bed and her legs hanging off the side. Dropping to his knees, Clint caught her thighs and parted them, revealing the dark tangle of hair. 
 
“Clint?” Phil made his name a question with a hint of uncertainty. 
 
He pushed aside the thought  -- had anyone ever done this for her? -- and leaned in, burying his face between her legs.  He opened the folds with his thumbs and licked along the sensitive area around the already engorged nub of her clitoris.  
 
“Clint.” This time she gasped his name, a shiver racing through her. 
 
Her scent filled his nose as he set to work learning the intricate and intimate paths that gave her pleasure. With his tongue and his fingers and his mouth, he memorized how much pressure made her jump and which motion had her begging for more. When he turned his head, his scruffy jaw dragged along her inner thigh; she cried out, and he looked up to find her breathing quickly, her eyes glazed as she bit her lips. 
 
“You like that?” He grinned and did it again, rubbing along the other thigh. 
 
“Oh yes,” she answered.
 
He dove back in, pulled her legs tighter so each motion grazed his jaw along her skin, and went back to work driving her crazy.  When she was trembling, her hands buried in his hair, he pressed a finger inside, crooking and turning and thrusting. He could feel the tension building so he focused his mouth on her clitoris, sucking it in and rolling it on his tongue as he added a second finger and, finally, found the sensitive tangle of nerves. 
 
“Oh gods,” she cried as she shattered, fingers scrabbling through his hair as she rode out the tremors of her release. 
 
With a final rub of her inner thigh, he stood up and reached for her, pulling her close so he could press his mouth to those lush lips and press their bodies together.  Scrabbling fingers found the top of his pants as she searched for the laces; he helped her untie them so he could kick them away. She pushed his shoulders back to get a good look at him; her eyes widened as she saw his cock, hard and flushed red. Then she chuckled and ran a hand down his chest to tentatively brush along the length. 
 
The next kiss was deeper, his tongue slipping into her mouth to taste. She started to scoot back on the bed, but he stopped her, catching her hips and hefting her up then whirling them around and putting her back against the wall. Lining up, he pressed into her slowly;  she was tight and wet and clenched around him as he filled her. Once he was fully sheathed,  he put both hands on the wall on either side of her head. 
 
 “Better hold on, darlin’,” he said.
 
He waited until she crossed her feet in the small of his back and wrapped her fingers around his taut muscles of upper arms.  Then he slid almost all the way out and back in again, watching her face. So expressive and open, he could see every flush, every flicker of pleasure, and he chased it with his thrusts. With each gasp and moan and invocation of his name, slow and easy grew harder and faster. Soon he was scooping his hips, driving into her, leaning close to feel the drag of nipples as her breasts bounced up and down. She slid a hand around the nape of his neck and drew him in for a filthy kiss with tongue and teeth before throwing her head back, rolling her hips, and clenching her legs tighter. 
 
Sweat gathered in his hair and began to run down his back; a bead pooled in Phil’s collar bone and he dipped to lap it up with his tongue. Twice he shifted for a different angle,  earning cries of more and please from Phil. He wrapped a hand around one of her hips and lifted her higher; that brought her breasts in range so he bent down and sucked one nipple into his mouth. 
 
“Oh, oh, oh, I’m …” 
 
He was almost there, just a few more thrusts and then …  
 
“Phil.” 
 
He moaned her name as he came, buried deep in her wet heat. He had just enough thought left to dip his fingers and roll her clit until she shattered, muscles tightening around his cock. Then he let it wash over him; still connected, he could hear her breaths, feel her heartbeat until it was his whole world. 
 
Slowly, he came back to himself. Sliding his arms around her, he carried her gently to the bed and laid her down.  She mumbled, her hands grasping as he let her go so he could pull down the covers.
 
“Not going anywhere,” he promised. “Confession time: I’m a cuddler. I love waking up all tangled together for some slow sleepy morning sex.” 
 
“Sounds lovely.” She slipped under the quilt, Clint sliding in next to her. “I’ve never had that. Sex was always tossing up the gown, some thrusts and grunts, and that was it.”
 
For not the first and probably not the last time, Clint wished he could put an arrow between Grant’s eyes; the bastard deserved a much more painful death than being thrown from his horse. Clint couldn’t change what Phil had gone through, but he could give her some better memories, show her the difference between sex and making love, and he intended to do that for as long as she’d let him. 
 
Snuggling up, he tucked her in close, his front to her back, his arms wrapping her tight, his leg slipping between hers. He buried his nose in her hair, nuzzled kisses into her scalp, and pulled the quilt up, cocooning them in a warm nest. 
 
“You deserve so much more,” he murmured. “Everything you want.” 
 
“Already have it,” she said. “I want you.” 
 
He held her as she fell asleep. For a long time, he lay awake, hyper aware of the touch of skin and the rise and fall of her chest, scared to close his eyes ‘lest he wake up and find this was all a dream. He’d thought her unattainable, out-of-his-league, too good for someone like him. Family connection to the Hands aside, he’d had nothing to offer but a distant lineage and his love. He may have had an entry to court because of Winifred and his friendship with Will and Tophe, but he wasn’t one of the upper echelon, and it hadn’t bothered him, not really. The further down the family tree, the less he was caught up in the machinations of politics and the game for the throne. 
 
Truth was, he had a good life; Winnie saw to that. She’d never treated him any differently than Victoria and given him every advantage. What others thought didn’t matter; Phil’s family hadn’t cared nor had his friends. Some of the Council members did -- Alstair and Harald were at the top of that list -- but Jemma and Fitz and Mack and Trip and Melinda and Maria and Jasper had stood up for him. No, he didn’t have any regrets, not even his absolute and all-consuming infatuation with one Philomena Coulson . Coming to terms with that hopelessness had driven him to leave Coulfell and doing that, it turned out, had made him his own man with a hard-earned reputation and the skills to protect the people he loved. 
 
As he thought about the dangers that surrounded them, he flattened his palm along the little curve of her belly. Having a child with Phil was something he wanted, but that child being the Imperial heir terrified him. As distant as he was from the line of succession, there was always the worry of being at risk. Winifred’s cousin had been caught up in one of the never-ending assassination plots and Tony’s maternal uncle had died in an attempted coup d’etat. So much intermarrying and mixing of bloodlines had left a lot of claimants and far too many first, second, and third cousins, although so many were dead now from the cross-fire. John Garrett was a prime example of the luck it took to survive; even though the prime agitators had met a violent end, a new heir could bring the power-hungry back out of the woodwork. Clint would have to start laying plans now to protect the child along with any other siblings, starting with tracking down and ending, with extreme prejudice, the spellcaster and the person who’d paid for it. He’d enlist Natasha, of course, and Victoria and …
 
“Go to sleep,” Phil murmured. She covered his hand with hers, small fingers curling between his. “Worry about it later.” 
 
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He kissed the curve of her ear and the nape of her neck. “Tomorrow it is.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Truth,” said a traveller,

“Is a breath, a wind,

A shadow, a phantom;

Long have I pursued it,

But never have I touched

The hem of its garment.”

“Truth”

Stephen Crane

“Did you sleep well?” Betty asked, a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she filled up her mug with coffee from the communal pot
 
The dining room was mostly empty, only Clint and Okoye in the corner, the general just finishing her watch. Everyone else had already eaten, those who’d pulled an all-nighter off to bed and the earlier risers heading out to do their chores. Phil had piled her plate with rashers, beans, eggs, and two of Hunter’s fruit stuffed pancakes before Betty had appeared and beelined straight for her. 
 
She should be embarrassed; according to the Church, what happens in bed chambers was a private matter. In court circles, though, who was sleeping with who was fodder for many rounds of gossip; the titillating details were whispered between Lords and Ladies spreading faster than a bard could travel. Her family had always kept quiet about relationships, putting on a unified front. Few knew that her mother and father worked well together as rulers, but did not share the same interests outside of the throne room. They’d come to care for each other and made a good life together despite it starting as a political match.
 
But Clint was different. For one, Phil loved him, and that changed things. And secondly, this was Betty asking, her friend who had thrown off the courtly conventions, given up family money and name to be with Bruce. 
 
“It was a good night,” she replied and her eyes flickered to Clint’s profile. He was talking, his hands moving to punctuate his words. “Very good.” 
 
“Ah, I take it you and Clint enjoyed the cottage then,” Betty said. .
 
“Oh, yes,” Phil replied. “It was perfect for our needs.” 
 
Betty chuckled and, after a moment, Phil joined in. 
 
“I remember you staring at his ass.” Betty added a liberal amount of sugar and cream to her cup. “And he watched when he thought you weren’t looking. Nice to see you figuring it out..” 
 
“It’s complicated.” Phil still wasn’t sure how things were going to work, but she felt too relaxed this morning to worry about it. “Technically, I’m handfasted to John Garrett, but I’m done with all that self-sacrifice.” 
 
“Good.” Betty followed her over to the table where Okoye was just standing up. “You deserve to be happy.” 
 
“Agreed.” Clint waved at the bench beside him. “You’ll get no argument from me on that point.” 
 
“He’s in obnoxiously high spirits this morning,” Okoye warned as she left, heading down the hallway to the dormitory rooms “I need some sleep before I can handle so much giddiness,” 
 
“Well, I for one am glad for it.” Betty sat down across from Clint, leaving the space next to him for Phil. “With everything going on, we could use some brightness.” 
 
Before Phil could take a bite, Clint swiped a strip of bacon; she smiled at him and pushed her plate into the middle of the table. “I knew you’d want seconds, so I got enough for both of us.” 
 
“Thanks, darlin’.” Clint grabbed his fork and speared some eggs. “I seemed to have worked up an appetite.” 
 
Her face flamed at Betty’s pointed look; the phantom feel of Clint’s hands were still on her skin. “So, did you make any headway last night?” Phil asked, deflecting any questions about her suddenly very real sex life. 
 
“We’ve isolated the elements of the spell,” Betty answered. “Some of them are easy to identify and are fairly simple. The lineage part is basically the same as tracing a blood line in an infant, but the infection has, to our knowledge, never been done at the micro level. Dispersal is the same; the area radius of a basic location spell is common, but the atomization is a different beast. Bobbi had the idea that the dispersal was a lot like the murmuration of a flock of birds, and Luke is working on the concept that it made the blood malleable like a forge heating up metal. We’re chipping away at it bit by bit, but the big breakthrough was the Sokovian talismans; Rogers let us look at his and Loki thinks he can create a more permanent shielding, one that would allow traditional magics that read the blood but block those those that want to reshape it.” 
 
“That’s a good first step.” Clint swallowed then licked the grease off his finger and Phil lost the plot of the conversation as she remembered what those fingers had been doing earlier. 
 
She’d read books about sex, had known, in theory, that women could have multiple orgasms, but experiencing it was quite a different story. He’d played her like a harp, plucking all the right strings and gliding his hands and fingers and mouth across her skin in ways she never could have imagined. His sole purpose was her pleasure, and he focused his very determined energy on bringing her to completion again and again. In the middle of the night, when he’d gotten up to stir the fire, he came back to bed, curled up behind her, teased her and stroked her until she shattered then slid inside, rocking slowly, building her back up and taking her over the edge again.  Then this morning, he kissed every inch of her body, used his very talented tongue on her most intimate parts and made her beg for more. Skin to skin, sweating in the warmth of the fire, he’d fucked her with long slow strokes and left her panting and groaning beneath him. . 
 
“... not even able to do it and he’s one of the best magic users in the Empire,” Betty was saying. “The delicacy of the components and the raw amount of power puts it out of the reach of almost …” 
 
Betty trailed off as Bruce entered the room; the two exchanged a glance. Bruce shrugged as if in apology, and Betty’s face fell. Once he had a cup of coffee, he headed their way and joined them. 
 
“Is everything all right?” Clint asked, clearly picking up on the silent conversation going on. 
 
“Actually, I need to talk to her Highness … Majesty? … I’m not good at court etiquette, sorry.” Dark circles colored the skin under his eyes.  “I have a few questions. For clarification.” 
 
“Of course. And please, it’s Phil. We’re visitors in your home. Ask away.”
 
“Can you describe the spell again, how it acted?” 
 
She couldn’t forget how the cloud crawled up her legs and covered her arms. Sometimes she dreamed about it, and it was so much worse, Parkete choking on her own blood and all Phil could do was watch. Sometimes it was blood on her hands dripping as her skin dissolved, poison eating away at her flesh. 
 
“It came through an open upper window, a mist, and it moved with purpose, touching each of us in turn. Maria, the baby, Jasper, Oro, me. Parkete was the last.” 
 
“Where did it first make contact with you? What did it feel like? Did it hurt?” 
 
“My lower legs. It was cold, like sea fog, clammy, and it smelled like flowers. It was pin pricks, very light. A tingle.” 
 
“Did it touch your skin? Before it got to your hands?” 
 
“Yes, it felt like spiderwebs crawling up my legs.” She stopped and tilted her head. “Why? What difference does it make?” 
 
Bruce glanced at Betty then sighed and put his mug down on the table. “We’ve broken the components of the spell down into their smaller parts and are testing various hypotheses, operating on the foundation that complicated spells are built upon simpler ones. Atomization of a spell is difficult and changing blood into poison should be impossible. But delivering it is easy; healers do it all the time, driving out sickness by inserting medicine into the body directly.” 
 
“Influenza cures.” Phil knew all about those types of spells from working with Oro. “Fertility treatments. The spell touches the skin and then is absorbed into the bloodstream. That’s how some targeted poisons work too.” 
 
“Exactly. A more complicated spell would have more reasons to fail,” Bruce continued. “What if someone was inside a locked room or underground or too far away? Too many variables to go wrong. No, from what Shuri has discovered, it was a basic healer’s spell.” 
 
Phil sat back as the import of what Bruce was saying hit her.. 
 
“Okay, so what difference does that make?” Clint asked. “If it entered the body through touch …” 
 
“The blood on my hands wouldn’t matter.” Her heart gave a lurch in her chest at the implications. “The Bishop was wrong.” 
 
“Bishop Blake is a church man through and through,” Betty said. “And the church has its own agenda, one it wants to keep hidden.” 
 
“Like making blood warriors and expanding lineage tracking spells?” Clint huffed. “Yeah, they’re in this up to their necks.” 
 
“But then why …” A cold tendril curled along her spine “ … didn’t it work on me?” 
 
“Phil.” Betty reached for her hand and held it in her own. 
 
“I’m sorry, but there’s only one viable reason,” Bruce said.
 
“No.” She refused to even entertain the notion. “I have my father’s eyes and the Coulson nose.” 
 
“There are ways to change that..” Betty’s words were soft and sympathetic. “The spells are forbidden except in the most dire of circumstances, but babies can be manipulated before they’re born.” 
 
“People change their kids in the womb?” Clint’s hand settled on Phil’s thigh, a warm anchor in the middle of this stormy conversation. “That has to be dangerous.” 
 
“It is.” Phil was surprised her voice was steady. “For both the baby and the mother. Remember what happened to Greta Fitz? The healers told her not to try again after Leo, but Alstair wanted a second son, so she kept trying. She lost one and then went to the Church when they realized the second had a birth defect. She died in their care. To risk that just to change eye color … '' Phil shook her head, refusing to believe it. “My mother would never do that; she believed in natural childbirth.” 
 
“She wouldn’t,” Clint agreed. “Winifred was there at both yours and your sister’s deliveries, and she’s never mentioned anything about Church spells.” 
 
“I’m sure you're right,” Bruce said. “Your mother’s family is connected to other noble houses, many with blue eyes and similar features; hell, most nobles have a much higher chance of recessive traits because of inter-marriage.” 
 
“So, what are you suggesting? That my mother cheated on my father and passed me off as his own? That my brothers aren’t … weren’t my brothers?” It was dizzying, the web unraveling as she tried to hold on to her life. She pushed back from the table and stood. “I need some air.” 
 
With long strides, she was out the door and heading towards the creek, her head reeling as the cascade of questions kept coming. To even begin to believe that her mother would perpetuate such a lie, that her father might not be hers.. She veered away from the cottages, not wanting to run into anyone and kept going until she was among the orchard, trees hiding her and her distress. Stopping under one, she tried to take a deep breath and break the band of pressure that had settled around her chest, but her heart was pounding too loud, blood rushing in her ears. 
 
“Phil.” 
 
Clint’s fingers brushed her shoulder, and she was turning before she realized it, pressing against his broad chest and burrowing her face into the curve of his neck. Suddenly overwhelmed, she struggled to get control but the tears flowed anyway. It was all too much; her family was dead and now they might not be her family after all. Decorum and perception be damned, she couldn’t handle the weight of the expectations and demands. 
 
Strong arms held her close, breathy words of comfort whispered in her ear as crying turned to sobbing, the emotional damn broken. Clint gathered her tight and stroked little circles in the small of her back as the torrent of sadness poured out. The empty ache of missing her father and her brothers, the fear for the future of the kingdom, the pressures of rule and the denial of her own wants and needs. Garrett and Rumlow and Obediah and assassination attempts. Being a perfect daughter, smiling at court, doing what she was told, filling a function instead of having a life. Marrying Grant, lying still while he rutted on top of her and being thankful he left immediately after, dealing with his angry outbursts and the fallout of his violence towards others. All those years of watching Clint, shoving her desires into a box and locking them away when she could have been loving him. 
 
The storm of tears finally wound down, and she became aware of the wet fabric beneath her cheek. Shivering, she hiccupped before she got her breathing under control. 
 
“Hey, it’s all right,” Clint murmured. “You’re safe. I’m here.” 
 
And, gods above, she was. For once in her life, she could feel what she wanted and not worry about it affecting the family name or her reputation. 
 
“I know.” She sniffled and lifted her head but didn’t step away from the warmth of Clint’s body. “Thank you. I think I needed that.” 
 
“It’s been a long time coming.” He kissed a tear off her cheek. “You’ve survived so much, Phil. You don’t have to carry it all on your own; there are a lot of people who want to help you.”  
 
“I’m beginning to believe that.” She huffed a quiet laugh. “Took finding out I might not be a Coulson to make it real, I guess.” 
 
“You know they loved you, right?” Clint asked, concern writ large in his blue-grey eyes. “The twins thought you hung the moon and stars, Will and Tophe both took their cues from you. Whatever the truth is, they were your family.” 
 
“They didn’t know.” She dropped her eyes. “If they had …” 
 
“Don’t.” Clint caught her chin and lifted her head up. “It might not be true and, even if it is, there could be many reasons why your parents kept it quiet. And what does it matter at this point? You’re queen, sworn in by the Bishop himself. No one need ever know.”
 
But she could see it, the path that led to the revelation. To protect against another assassination by the spell, everyone would need to know how it works, and when they did, they’d realize. And then there was the Emperor; he’d demand his own court mages cast the lineage spell to ensure the heir was part of his blood. She’d counted on both her father and mother’s connections to the Imperial bloodline; without the Coulson side, the link could be too weak. 
 
“Listen to me,” Clint said when she’d been quiet too long. “No matter what the Church preaches, blood is not the end all, be all. Winifred and Victoria are my mother and sister as sure as Orlando and Will were your father and brother. It’s about acceptance and caring for each other, not biology. If there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of, it’s this; love is what binds us together.” 
 
He was so damn earnest that she had to smile. 
 
“Clint Barton, philosopher and counselor.” She chuckled and it helped push back the hovering dark possibilities that spun out endlessly. “Did you learn that in the Outer Isles?” 
 
“Nat banged some of it in my head, the rest I learned the hard way.” He gave her a squeeze then stepped back. “Take it one step at a time, and we’ll get through it.” 
 
“Right, first step is to find some answers, talk to people who were close to my mother. Bishop Cedric did the lineage spell; he’s passed on now. Agatha, the midwife, married and went to Baxter’s Field; she was there for all of mom’s pregnancies.” 
 
“Winifred,” Clint added, then he paused. “If you really want to know, there’s one person who can probably tell you.” 
 
“The Spymaster.” She nodded. “But we’d have to track him down and messages can take weeks to get to him. We don’t have the time.” 
 
She felt the rise and fall of Clint’s chest as he sighed. 
 
“I know how,” he admitted. “To get to him. Quickly. Maybe two days.” 
 
She raised an eyebrow and Clint gave a little groan as he rolled his eyes. 
 
“What is it with me and strong women?” He mused. “You and Nat and Winnie and Tori. One look and I can’t resist.”
 
“Why do you know how to contact the spymaster, Clint?” she asked, not allowing Clint to sidetrack the conversation. 
 
“Nat and me, we, um, worked for him on occasion,” he admitted. “Sort of still do, but I ran off to see you. I mean, he’s not mad about it; I sent him a message saying we'd be out of touch, but didn’t wait for a reply.” 
 
“Of course you did.” Something loosened in her chest as she watched Clint run a hand through his hair, making it even messier than it already was. “The man truly has his fingers in every pie, doesn’t he? Fine. Let’s go see the wizard of secrets.”
 
Deciding who was going and who was staying turned out to be harder than Phil expected. Shuri was knee-deep in aerosol disbursement experiments; she wrote a quick note to Nakia to come back and pick her and Okoye up when the ship’s run was finished. There was no question about Steve; he made his position as Phil’s guard clear when he grabbed his rucksack and was ready to leave in short order. Natasha was never a question; she merely nodded as if this had been the plan all along, and, truth told, she’d wanted them to move on quickly. Tony clearly wanted to continue working with Bruce, but it was the opportunity to learn more about Obediah’s underhanded dealings that convinced him to leave, that and the glances towards Steve he kept making. From the bags under Tony’s eyes, Phil doubted he’d left the workshop at all last night, much less had a heart-to-heart talk. 
 
The first surprise came when Daisy caught them as they were heading to gather their things and asked if she could go with them. “I’ve been trying to find my blood father for years but only have a few clues. The last person I spoke to told me the Spymaster might know more,” she explained.
 
“We could use a mage,” Clint said, and just like that, it was settled. 
 
The second took the form of Loki Laufeyson who was waiting when they emerged from the cottage. 
 
“If I may have a moment?” he asked Phil. 
 
“Of course.” Phil acquiesced, and she and Clint waited to see what he wanted.
 
“Alone?” Loki clarified. 
 
“Whatever you wish to say to me, you can say in front of him,” she said. 
 
“Ah.” Loki looked at them both. “I see. Well, then, perhaps we can go somewhere more private?.” 
 
She didn’t have time to waste. Loki had far too often rubbed her the wrong way for her to ever be truly at ease with him. Still, he had changed and she gave him credit for trying to be a better man. So she followed him to the protected spot under the willow branches, knowing that Clint was right behind her. 
 
“First, I wanted to offer what solace I could,” Loki began. “I have been working with Bruce and I know what you have learned. When I discovered my true blood lineage, I’m ashamed to say I reacted poorly. Knowing Odin took me as spoils of war and denied me my magical birthright, well, I was a little shit to everyone for far too long, present company included.” 
 
“King Odin is not known for his empathy or tact,” Phil agreed. “But Frigga has always been a loving and kind ruler.” 
 
“Yes. ‘Twas she and Thor who finally convinced me that they loved me no matter what my origins. They never gave up on me,” Loki’s eyes grew serious. “I have seen your family’s bond, and am certain they would have done the same for you. Whatever you find out, nothing can change the love they had for you.” 
 
A lump grew in Phil’s throat; she could only nod in response to Loki’s kind words. 
 
“Secondly, I have long desired to speak to you about that other matter, the shared thorn in our side” 
 
She’d half expected Loki to brook this topic but, still, she was uneasy. . 
 
“You did me a favor; had you not acted, I would have and, in my rage, would not have been so discreet as you. As it was, I only needed to give things a little push to send them to their natural conclusion. Rest assured there will be no repercussions; I saw to that myself.” Anger flashed across his face. “She deserved better,:”
 
“She did,” Phil could hardly believe what he was saying.  If what Loki said was true, a weight was lifted off her shoulders. “And thank you: I shall sleep better with one less ghost to haunt my dreams.” 
 
“I would take more if I could.” He reached for her hand, and she let him lift it to his lips and kiss it. “Know that you have options, Your Majesty. A union between our countries could be of great benefit.” 
 
Clint bristled and she almost laughed, but settled for a smile instead. 
 
“A kind offer, but I’ve decided to go where my heart leads,” she told the prince. “Breaking tradition, I know, but you understand that.” 
 
“Indeed I do. It is very freeing once you let go of the weight of expectations,” Loki answered. “If things don’t work out with Clinton, you can always change your mind.” 
 
“I won’t,” Phil assured him.
 
“Well then, tell the King of Secrets that he still owes me a bottle of Jangerhiel ice wine,” Loki said. “He can send it here.” 
 
With that, Loki wished them safe travels and left. Silence reigned as Phil waited for Clint to ask the inevitable questions, but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her. 
 
“One of the many things I’ve learned from Natasha is that we all have stories, and they are truly our own to share or keep. Just know I’m here for you whenever … or if … you need to talk about it,” he said. 
 
The last bit of tension drained away as she realized he wasn’t going to push. She’d tell him eventually, but right now, in the middle of all this, she wasn’t ready. 
 
“I will,” she promised.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Pinned down

by love, for you the only natural action,

are you edged more keen

to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown

her household books to you, daughter-in-law,

that her sons never saw?

Adrienne Rich

“Snapshots of a Daughter-In-Law”

“... not going to stop protecting people, Tony. That’s a part of who I am.”
 
The sun was close to dropping below the horizon, and Phil slowed to a stop as she walked across the deck of the ship. Two figures were hidden under the stairs, Steve, with his broad shoulders, and Tony, slightly shorter. 
 
“I’m not asking you to,” Tony replied. “But I’m not the type to haunt the widow’s walk, waiting for my lover to return from war. I’m too old for that romantic shit; you’re in this or you’re not.” 
 
“Agreed.” Steve’s head lowered and their shadows began to merge. “I’m not the same kid who needed to prove himself and wanted to fight the world. I know what I want now, and I want to be with you.” 
 
Their lips met as a streak of sunlight fell across them, casting a red glow around Steve’s blonde hair and glittering in the dark brown of Tony’s. For a moment, Phil wished she could draw, could capture the beauty of the two men, oblivious to the world and completely caught up in each other, but that was a talent that had always eluded her. So she moved on, descending the stairs to the cabins, leaving Steve and Tony to their reunion. 
 
One of the stewards was exiting the door when she arrived at Shuri’s cabin; Nakia had insisted that Phil and Clint take the space in light of their new status, she’d said with a wide smile. Since Tony had his own cabin near the workshop, she and Clint were by themselves on this level, a nice bit of privacy she hadn’t expected. 
 
“Your Majesty.” The Wakandan nodded as he passed, carrying empty buckets in each hand. 
 
Interest piqued, she let herself in to discover a big copper tub filled with steaming water, soft scent filling the small room. Lit candles in their holders were arranged along the windowsill and the book shelf. casting a golden glow on the freshly made bed.  A gown was spread out over the covers, dark blue silk, a matching robe next to it. 
 
“Ah, you’re back early.” Clint was at the table, arranging plates and goblets; a bottle of her favorite Wakandan red wine was uncorked. “I thought you’d talk to Nakia longer.” 
 
“She had to deal with some of the women; they don’t all want to go home, it seems, and she’s giving them options.” Phil walked over to the tub and dipped a hand in the milky water. Steam rose as she swirled her fingers, the oils smooth against her skin. “You did all this for me?”

“Well, yeah. Wasn’t that difficult; they have all sorts of salts and oils and scents. First thing they do when the women come on board is let them get clean. Makes them feel safe and human again.” He shrugged as he picked up the wine and poured some into her cup. “After everything that’s happened, you deserve a little pampering.” 
 
She opened her mouth to argue but couldn’t come up with a good objection; truth was, she wanted to slip into the warmth and forget her troubles while she soaked. There wasn’t much to do at the moment; Clint had sent a message and they were sailing to his usual rendezvous spot with the Spymaster. Natasha and Daisy were helping with the rescued women, and Steve and Tony were caught up in each other. So why not? 
 
“Sounds wonderful.” She started to unbutton her vest, but Clint put his hands over hers and lowered them. 
 
“Let me,” he said, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. His fingers began to work the buttons out of their holes. “There’s something about undressing someone.” He pushed it off her shoulders and tossed it over the back of a chair. Then he slid down to her waistband, loosening the leather ties. “It’s intimate, the little touches, the closeness, the slow reveal of skin.” He pulled her shirt free then walked her back to the edge of the bed, easing her to sit down. “But it’s more than that; it’s serving, caring.” He knelt and pulled off one boot then the other. “Or maybe it’s the submission. Kneeling, putting someone else’s needs before your own.” Leather pants peeled down and left her legs bare; fingers trailed from the ankle to her thighs, dipping between and brushing the dark hair there before catching the hem of her shirt and pulling it up and off. “Gods, you’re gorgeous. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.” 
 
Heat flushed through her under his insistent gaze as he stood, took her hand and pulled her into his arms. Nipples grazed against the linen of his shirt, her thighs rubbing over the supple leather when he leaned in to give her a light touch of lips, more a promise than a kiss. Then he led her to the tub and held her elbow as she stepped in. The water was hot enough to form prickles along her skin, but it was a smooth caress as she sat down and let it cover her. Flower petals floated on the milky surface, the scent fresh and calming. 
 
“Do you want me to wash your hair?” Clint asked. 
 
She flicked her eyelids open -- she didn’t remember closing them -- and saw he’d taken off his shirt and had a bar of soap and a wash rag in his hand. 
 
“Oh, yes, please.” The last time it had been clean was before the handfasting ceremony. “But won’t it make the water dirty?” 
 
“The Wakandans have a plan for that.” He dragged a chair over to the tub at the end near her head. ‘Lean back and fit your neck in this groove.” 
 
There was padding on the metal lip and, once she settled into it, Clint untied her scarf and started brushing out her hair, letting it hang down into an empty bucket he put on the floor. He ladled out some warm water from another bucket over it; she practically melted as he worked up a lather, massaging shampoo into the full length and along her scalp. She began to drift as he rinsed and soaped up again, working out the grit and oil and the leftover color. After the second rinse, he dried her hair with a towel then picked up a wide tooth comb and began to untangle it.  The repetitive strokes were soothing; Phil closed her eyes and completely relaxed. 
 
At some point, Clint coiled her hair and clipped it up then his soapy fingers were massaging muscles, finding knots and releasing them with just the right amount of pressure. Up the back of her neck, his hands curled around her throat as he circled his thumbs at the base of her skull. Across her shoulder, he skated along her collarbone, fingers breaking the water surface and stirring little circles. He stopped to reach for the sweet smelling bar of soap and then took her right arm and began working, leaving suds in his wake. She cracked her eyelids and watched as he did her left arm; a pat on her knees that were above the water, and she lifted one leg then the other for him to clean. 
 
It was, she thought as he ran his hands over her wet skin, one of the most intimate things anyone had ever done for her. Maids had helped with her hair before, but Clint leaning over her, his muscles on display as he reached and bent and circled, steam making his hair fall into his eyes, was revealing in a new way. She was letting him in, closer than anyone, giving him control to take care of her. Submission, he’d said; she’d never thought it appealing, the idea of serving and being served in the bedroom, but this? Her whole body was flush, the throbbing ache growing between her legs, her nipples puckering as his hands dipped below the water line, causing ripples of desire to spread. Slick fingers curved under her breasts, teasing and light, then he was kneeling behind her, resting her head on his chest as he delved even further. 
 
“You’re so responsive,” he murmured as he parted her folds and dipped in to rub the already aching clit. “So ready for me.” 
 
She didn’t know how to tell him she’d been ready for him most of her life. That she’d dreamed about him in her bed, touching her just like this. With a sigh, she let her knees fall apart and opened for him as the little circles he was making spiraled her closer to pleasure. This was real -- his breath on her ear, the calluses on his fingers, her breast circled by his palm. She turned her head so her cheek rested on his bare skin and groaned as rolled her clitoris and her nipple at the same time. 
 
“Almost.” He kissed the skin behind her ear and she shivered despite the water that surrounded her. “Come for me, darlin’. Let me see you shatter.” 
 
Another twist of his fingers and she hit the peak, tumbling over into her orgasm. It rolled through her and she sank deeper into the water, her muscles going lax as she floated in a blissful haze. 
 
“Water’s getting cool.” Clint’s voice stirred her out of her contentment. “Time to get out.” 
 
“Mmmm,” she hummed her agreement under her breath, not really wanting to move, but she took his hand and let him help her stand and step out of the tub onto a small rug. This time her shiver was from the cool air; the towel he wrapped around her was a welcome warmth, the gentle rubbing heating up her skin. 
 
“Here you go.” He tucked the towel around her and reached for the gown. 
 
“Not yet,” she said when he started bunching it up to put over her head “You haven’t … I mean, you’re still …” She reached out and cupped his half-hard cock through his pants. “I want to.”
 
A slow sensual smile slid across his lips. “Anything you want, just ask.” 
 
“Anything?” She could feel Clint jump and start to grow as she dragged her fingers around the edge of the bulge. 
 
“Anything,” he promised. 
 
“Then take these off and get on the bed.” 
 
Submission, he’d said earlier, and she’d never thought of that word as sexy before but now, as he shed his pants and laid down on his back, waiting for her next command, a spark flared inside her, some dormant need she’d never examined. Tossing the towel away, she felt the force of his gaze, intense and so very hot as he roved from her head to toes, her naked body on display. She returned the favor, looking her fill as he lay sprawled on the sheets, one knee bent with his foot on the bed and the other leg hanging off the edge, his thickening cock nestled in wiry dark hair. He was thick and uncut, curving slightly, the pink head against tanned skin. 
 
“Like what you see?” he asked teasingly. He lifted his hands and clasped his fingers behind his head, making his muscles contract across his biceps and chest, lines deepening around his hard abs. He was lean, built like a swordsman at the waist, but an archer across his shoulders. Thicker thighs that cut in where his ass curved out, a hollow in the smooth cheek from riding. 
 
Words deserted her as desire slammed into her chest, a need so great she had to remind herself to breathe. All this beauty … there was no other word … rough and masculine and strong and waiting on her to decide what to do with it. Heady like the finest whiskey, she wanted to take a long drink … and she could. Resting one knee on the bed, she put her hands down on either side of his chest, flattening her palms, and leaned over him. 
 
“Phil,” he murmured, fingers brushing back a stray curl that escaped the clip. “I’m yours.” 
 
The first taste was in the vee of his collarbone; she followed it to his shoulder and then up to his ear. There was no plan, just the pounding of her heart in her chest, the pulsing need deep inside, and the expanse of naked Clint for her to explore. She learned that his breathing hitched when she pinched his nipple, that he was ticklish when she kissed the bottom of his foot, and that he moaned when she drew patterns on his inner thigh. She discovered that if she straddled his hips, his cock fit perfectly against her and she could rock back and forth, a foretaste of the coming pleasure. And if she leaned forward while she did, her breasts were at the perfect height for him to suckle and his hands to fondle until she broke one more time, a second organism rolling through her. 
 
She watched his cock jump when she exhaled close to his balls and smelled his musky scent when she buried her nose into the hinge of his thigh. And taste …  his lips held vestiges of coffee and the pearly drops that leaked from his slit were briny and slightly sweet. Licking them made his hips jerk so she did it again while her fingers mapped the veins. She read books, seen the drawings, knew that this was something men enjoyed. Mouths were, after all, warm and wet and tight. What the giver got out of it, she hadn’t understood, other than the abstraction of pleasing their partner. But as she parted her lips and slid them along his length, taking only a little at first then a little more, mouth filled with the weight of him, she could feel his groan vibrate through his skin and into her throat and she knew.  The heat, the intimacy … the control. That she could swallow him down and make him beg, words tumbling out of his mouth. Could scratch her nails on his thigh as she sucked and make him tremble. 
 
“Phil.” His hands wound into her hair. “That’s so good, but I’m not gonna last much longer.”
 
She drew back and saw how his muscles were clenched, his cock straining. A flash of satisfaction, that she could do this to him, bring him to the edge, made her smile. Powerful, that’s how she felt as she crawled back up his body, never taking her eyes off his. This time, as she settled a knee on either side of his hips, she lifted his cock and slowly sank down, taking it all the way inside.  
 
“Gods, yes,” Clint breathed, his hands curling around her hips. “Ride me, darlin’.” 
 
Hands on his chest, she lifted up then dropped back down, sheathing him inside of her inch-by-inch. His eyes closed as she squeezed tight around him and his fingers pressed into her skin. Then she rose up until just the tip was inside before fully seating herself again. 
 
“Gods, you feel so good,” he told her. 
 
Leaning over, she dragged her nipples across his chest and kissed him before pushing back up and beginning to ride him. Slowly at first, she got used to the feel of him pressing deep inside; she rolled her hips at the top and bottom, tightened going down and coming back up, changing the speed of her rise and descent, looking for the right combination to hear that gravel in his voice as he called her name.
 
“Sit up.” He took her hands in his and pushed her until she was completely upright. With a shallow thrust he arched his hips and she saw stars when he hit that sweet tangle of nerves that fanned the sparks of desire.
 
“Oh.” She ground down, chasing the feeling. “That’s perfect.” 
 
She began moving again; he matched her pace, thrusting up as she came down and each time her body lit up. With increasing speed, she chased the feeling until she was totally in the moment, bodies joined, hands clasped, intimately entwined. The burn of her thigh muscles, her breasts bouncing, hair falling free in a wave of curls as the clip slipped out, the overwhelming need -- she gave herself over and let the fire consume her whole. 
 
“Phil.” He made her name sound like a prayer, as if she was a goddess of old, demanding an offering that he was freely giving. His shoulders lifted up, his head fell back, and she could see the tendons in his neck stand out in stark relief just before he came, pumping into her as he moaned. The warmth flooded her and she bucked when his thumb rubbed harshly over her clit, ripping another orgasm from her; she spasmed around him and he thrust weekly two more times before she collapsed onto his chest. 
 
“I might need another bath,” she murmured once she had her breath back. Sweat cooled on her skin but she didn’t move, unwilling to leave the arms that held her. “But I think I’m just going to stay right here.” 
 
“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who rode me hard.” Clint chuckled. “Anytime you want to take charge, feel free; I really enjoyed it.” 
 
They lay for a few more moments, then she shivered. Scooping her up, he rolled her to the side and slipped out from under her. She made a sound of protest; he kissed her shoulder and stroked along her side. 
 
“Going to clean up; it won’t take long,” he promised. 
 
She watched him through half-closed lids as he wet an edge of the towel and gently washed her before doing the same for himself. The lethargy from earlier was back, her body heavy and replete, the last skitterings of her climax fading. Lazily, she pressed the fingermarks on her hips where he’d held on, the echo of how he’d called for her as he came in her ear. A prayer indeed; she’d laugh at the romantic notion, but she remembered Oro saying that the mixing of blood was a sacred act and now she understood. She rubbed a hand over her stomach and smiled while Clint blew out the candles then crawled into the bunk with her. 
 
“What’s that smile for?” He lay facing her, bodies barely a handspan apart. 
 
“Nothing.” She slipped her hand under the pillow. A band of moonlight shone through the beveled glass window behind her, making his eyes the color of an early season storm.

“Un-huh.” He gathered her up and pulled her close; she snuggled in, resting her head on his shoulder. “Keep your secrets then.” 
  
“This is where the Spymaster picks to meet?” Tony groused as they settled into their seats in the common room. 
 
“What did you expect?” Steve asked as he flagged down the server. “A hidden room or a remote keep?” 
 
“Well, yeah. I mean, what’s the point of wandering around in public where everyone can see us?” He turned to the young man who stepped up to the table. “You have a good red wine? Not too dry, definitely not sweet.” 
 
“Um, we have mead?” He looked confused. “It’s real sweet though.” 
 
“Just pour a pint of bitters,” Tony ordered. “And whatever they’re having. Put it on my tab.” 
 
One thing Clint knew about Lord Anthony of Stark was that it was useless to argue with him. No amount of logical arguments about why parading around a busy port like Borhvan was sure to get him noticed was going to stop him coming along -- and waving money around made the chance someone would recognize him even higher. Yet, here he was and it was only a matter of time before word got around that he was alive. 
 
“What kind of respectable pirate tavern doesn’t have red wine?” Tony groused. 
 
“One, this is not a pirate bar and nobody gives a shit about what fancy nobles drink.” The man grabbed a chair from another table, flipped it around and straddled it. Natasha merely leaned to one side as he wedged himself between her and Daisy. He’d gone for full drama tonight in his long black coat, black pants, and black silky shirt; he’d even worn his good eyepatch, the one with the fancy stitching around the edges. “But they do have the best spicy shrimp cioppino stew on the southern coast.” 
 
Watching people meet the Spymaster was always entertaining; the man had a flair for the dramatic and enjoyed the chaos he often left in his wake. Just how loud and brassy the spy’s spy was amazed Clint; few believed a one-eyed bald man dressed in a long black coat could be the keeper of so many secrets. 
 
“Oh, that sounds good.” Phil had to shift closer to Clint as everyone made room for the newcomer. “Stew and then we find something sweet. I’m hungry.” 
 
“I could eat,” Steve agreed. “Daisy? You in?” 
 
“Sure,” the girl agreed.
 
“Wait a minute,” Tony protested, “are we just skipping the whole ‘appeared out of thin air’ and introductions? This guy could be anyone!” 
 
“Lord Nicholas, son of John, Earl of Marcus.” He offered Tony his hand. “But everyone calls me NIck.” 
 
“Earl of …” Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Marcus in the outer isles? The island where they make bhatka spiced rum?”
 
“Ah, the family business,” Nick said. “We have a new blend that’s just finished aging, going to be really popular. I can see about getting you a bottle if you’re interested.” 
 
The server arrived with a platter full of drinks, sitting one in front of each of them including a whiskey for Nick. 
 
“Hey!” Tony protested, looking at his mug of dark beer. 
 
“Bring a glass of my reserve for Lord Anthony, would you, Pinja, and a bowl of your spicy stew for everyone,” Nick ordered.  
 
“Of course.” The young man bobbed his head and headed back into the kitchen. 
 
“You’re the spymaster?” Daisy asked. “I thought you’d be …” 
 
“Less handsome? Some old white dude with a power complex?” Nick laughed. “Yeah, I get that I don’t fit the picture, but that’s part of the fun of the job. Nobody sees me coming.” 
 
“And you love it.” Clint grinned and raised his mug in toast.
 
“Beats harvesting sugar cane and family politics,” Nick agreed. “Sometimes it’s even entertaining, like now, for instance, when I’m about to break bread with a dead but not dead Lord, a newly minted queen, a bonafide war hero, and the brightest mage of this generation.”
 
Phil didn’t look the least bit surprised by Nick’s lack of deference; Tony on the other hand, blustered in that way he had when he was completely caught out. Clint could have warned him, but where was the fun in that?
 
“Brightest mage? That’s Daisy, I take it. And don’t think I didn’t notice you left Clint and the Widow out.” Tony raised an eyebrow as he turned the conversation back into his control. “So, Rum Lord, let’s see if you really know everything. What’s Obediah up to?” 
 
“Oh, that’s not the way it works.” Nick sipped his drink. “Secrets are currency in my line of work. You want to know something, you’ve got to give me something in return.”
 
“Right.” This Tony understood the art of driving a bargain. “I can confirm that Obediah tried to have me killed; he hired someone to sink my ship.” 
 
“It was the Ten Rings Syndicate, to be exact,” Nick said. “I’m talking about new information like who’s sleeping with who or where the bodies are buried.” 
 
If Clint’s leg hadn’t been touching Phil’s under the table, he’d have missed the little jerk she gave at Nick’s words. They hadn’t talked about that conversation with Loki, but Clint was beginning to put the pieces together … and he might owe Loki a debt of gratitude. They stopped talking as the food arrived and Clint took the chance to squeeze Phil’s thigh while everyone was busy passing around bowls and getting things settled.
 
“So if I don’t have anything, you won’t help me stop Obediah from whatever he’s up to?” Tony was starting to get angry. “Whatever he’s up to, people are going to get hurt, that’s a given. You just gonna let that happen?” 
 
“No,” Nick answered. “I could use someone on the inside, though, someone who can throw Stane like the godson he thought dead. I bet that would rattle his trees.” 
 
“This is how you get your informants? Pressure people who come looking for answers?” Tony shot back. 
 
“Some.” Nick shrugged. “But most have their own reasons for helping. Like you do.” 
 
“What about inside information about the blood soldier program?” Steve spoke up, breaking off the brewing argument. “What’s that worth?”

“Well, now.” Nick sat back in his chair, all his attention shifting to Steve. “Nothing like opening with a high bid.” 
 
“No.” Tony rounded on Steve. “That's not on the table.” 
 
“But the thing is,” Nick kept talking without acknowledging Tony, “I already know about the Imperial and Church testing including what they’re still doing behind closed doors.” 
 
“Don’t,” Tony said.
 
“Zola’s winter soldier trials,” Steve said at the same time. “What about that?” 
 
“Go on,” NIck encouraged. 
 
“I can give you names of the people who worked with him,” Steve offered.
 
“That’ll get you a look at the dossier on Obediah, but if you want to know the bigger picture of what he’s involved in …” Nick cocked his head and waited. 
 
“The location of Zola’s workshop.” Steve tossed that tidbit out. “The one Imperial troops never found.” 
 
“Deal.” Nick leaned forward and offered his hand; Steve shook it. “Good. I’ve been wanting to burn Zola out for a long time; too many of those idiots at court believe his story about being coerced by Schmidt. Man was in it up to his eyeballs, and he can’t keep hiding behind the Church’s robes.” 
 
“Zola’s alive? Of course those hypocrites took him in.” Tony sat up straight then looked at Steve. “You knew?” 
 
“He threw himself on the mercy of the Archbishop and some of the Lords are funding him.” Steve’s answer was tense and short. “No one has been able to touch him.” 
 
“Obediah’s one of his sponsors.” Nick picked up his spoon and scooped up some of the rich broth. “I’ll give you that one for free.” 
 
“Gods fucking damn it.” Tony muttered. “That cabal of bastards is going down.”  
 
“I’ll have the information ready in the morning,” Nick promised. “We can do the exchange then.” 
 
“If you can tell me who my father is, I will give you the name of the leader of Afterlife and its two biggest backers.” The words burst out of Daisy’s lips as if she could no longer hold them back. 
 
Nick’s eyebrows went up. 
 
“Afterlife?” Steve was the first one who spoke. “The Imperial Guard classifies them as a potential threat and has been looking for that information.”  
 
“As much as I want to know,” Nick said, “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer to your question. I can, however, start an investigation and see what I find. I’ll need to know all the specifics about where and when and any details that can help narrow the focus of the search.” 
 
“Of course you don’t have a name; I knew she was lying to me.” Daisy shook her head, tendrils of hair falling around her face. “Jaiying’s told nothing but one falsehood after another, but I know she’s getting very frustrated with my rejections. I’m afraid of what will happen when she finally realizes I don’t buy her act. She’s got a lot of kids there, orphans, disaffected teens, and she’s corrupting their minds.  Plus she’s mentally unstable and being used by Lord Malick and Lady Belyakov for their own ends; this is too important to wait.” 
 
Leaning forward, Nick took her hand in his, his look softening. “I will do everything I can to protect any innocents involved,” Nick told her, “and we will find out the truth of your lineage, I give you my solemn word.”
 
“Thank you.” She accepted his promise. “I’ll tell you all I know about Jaiying’s plans.” 
 
“Now, that’s settled,” Nick began, only to be cut off by Tony. 
 
“Wait, that’s it? I get the whole ‘pay or no dice’ and she gets promises and hand holding?” Tony said. “I see how it is.” 
 
“I was going to handle Obediah anyway,” Nick told him. “I just wanted to poke your ego a little.” 
 
“Fine.” Tony, satisfied that he’d gotten that admission, sat back in his chair. “And now I bet you want us to get lost while you talk to Phil about state secrets, eh? I can take a hint. Come on, Steve, let’s eat our meals in peace while Phil bargains with this devil.” 
 
Tony winked at Phil as he stood and picked up his bowl, transferring it to a table in the opposite corner of the room. Daisy and Natasha followed him, but Steve lingered. 
 
“I’m supposed to protect you,” Steve said with a pointed stare at Nick. “Hard to do that from across the room.”
 
“You serve the Emperor,” Phil replied. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I’m not sure I can trust you.” 
 
“Fair.” He nodded. “But to be clear, I serve the Empire, not the Emperor. I believe that we’re stronger when all the nations work together for a clear goal. The man at the top is human and fallible; the ideal of cooperation and sharing is not.” 
 
With those words, he left. 
 
“He really lives up to his reputation, doesn’t he?” Nick asked. 
 
“You have no idea,” Clint told him. 
 
When Nick raised his one eyebrow, Phil answered. “Clint’s staying.” 
 
“Ah.” Nick smiled. “That’s a new development, but not unexpected. So, what brings the queen of Coulfell to my table?”
 
“As if you don’t know,” Phil replied. “Tell me what you know about my blood father and I’ll tell you not only where the body is buried, but the how and why.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

William Butler Yeats “

The Second Coming

”

“There’s fact and then there’s supposition. Most of what I know for sure comes from your mother’s maid; I spoke to her not long before she died,” Nick said. “But there are still some unanswered questions.” 
 
“Tempia? She came with Mom to Coulfell,” Phil explained to Clint. “She left after her death, retired and went home. I remember her as being cold and formal but very loyal. Refused to let Bishop Blake into the Queen’s chambers when he wanted to validate her pregnancy with my sister. He’d just been appointed the week before and we were all reeling over the loss of Bishop Cedric”
 
“A strong willed woman, indeed; right to the end, she protected your mother’s secrets. She only told me what she did because she was worried about possible repercussions to the Queen’s reputation if the story ever came out; she wanted to be sure someone could set the record straight.”  Nick sipped his whiskey. “You know your mother was pregnant four times before you; three ended in miscarriages and one in a stillbirth.” 
 
“Yes,” Phil nodded. “That’s why she found Agatha; she was the best midwife in the Empire at the time.” 
 
Clint could see the tension in Phil, the way her brow was furrowed and her fingers clenching against her leg. Reaching under the table, he took her hand and held it, squeezing gently to show his support. 
 
“They call it crossed bloodlines,” Nick’s voice was as quiet and soft as Clint had ever heard it, “when two people’s lineage make it difficult to produce offspring. For some, it manifests as children born with disabilities and deformities; for others, like your parents, it makes it virtually impossible to carry to term. The healers told them, warned them about the dangers to your mother of trying again after you were born.” 
 
“I know,” Phil admitted. “Grandmother told me she refused to suppress her cycles and was determined to provide the kingdom with a spare. Gran admired her for it.” 
 
This had all happened before Clint came to Coulfell, but he’d heard Winifred talk about Phil’s mother and her determination to have another child. Phil inherited that stubborn streak; that she was here, chasing the truth, was a sign of that legacy. 
 
“According to Tempia, your mother went into a depression after the losses. She withdrew from court life and spent many nights at your family’s lodge rather than the castle. Everyone was concerned; your father bought her favorite wines and hired cooks to make her favorite foods, but she remained distant despite efforts by friends and family. It was only the marriage of the Emperor’s sister to Lord Cavada that drew her out of the mental darkness; as Queen, she had to attend the festivities.” 
 
“I’ve heard the story. How they conceived me in Triafyrd, blood blessed as the Archbishop prayed at the ceremony. You’re suggesting that’s where she… ?” Phil huffed. “I still don’t believe her capable of cheating; she took her role as Queen too seriously to risk it, especially without an heir in place.” 
 
“Maybe it was because she took it so seriously,” Clint suggested. “She might not be able to have a child with your father, but the kingdom needed an heir, so she made a choice.” 
 
Phil’s mouth opened to object, and he saw the exact moment she realized what he was saying.  Her lips pressed shut, and she blinked twice as the import sank in of what she’d been willing to do to ensure the security of Coulfell. Handfasting with Garrett. The potion from Ororo. The list of possible fathers. 
 
“Who was it?” she asked Nick. 
 
“Your mother never spoke his name; Tempia was with her in Triafyrd, but wasn’t aware of any assignations,” Nick said. “She knew the King was caught up in trade negotiations and had only made it back to their room in time to attend the ceremony.” 
 
“My father … he knew?” Phil’s eyes widened, and Clint found himself hoping that she could have this one bit of solace. 
 
“He did,” Nick verified. “Tempia overheard your father saying you were his child and that everything was taken care of. It was him who insisted that Cedric be the one to validate your blood rather than the ArchBishop.” 
 
“So Cedric falsified the lineage spell?” Phil asked. “But how did they … I look like my father.” 
 
“Your parents’ families were related,” Nick explained. “Hells bells, most of the nobility are so close it’s criminal; blue eyes, noselines, hair color … there’s not a great variety. Not too hard to find someone with similar features … just as easy as it is to find someone with enough Imperial blood to fool a spell.” 
 
“Nick,” Clint warned. He might count Nick as a friend, but Phil was his top priority. 
 
“Oh don’t get your panties in a twist.” Nick waved him off. “What’s best for the Empire that our good Captain so valiantly serves is a stable heir or two, and Garrett sure as hell doesn’t fill the bill. Your kids, on the other hand, may be just what the Empire needs.” 
 
“Right,” Clint scoffed. “Phil’s the one who’s fit to lead. Me? I’m just a trouble magnet.” 
 
“You’re strong, resourceful, have more common sense and street smarts than anyone else I know,” Phil told him. “And you’re going to instill that into our children. Blood isn’t always the answer, or so someone just told me.” 
 
“So that’s the plan?” Nick sat back and thought about it. “Yeah, I can see it. People always go for a love story. Add years of pining and shared life experience, and they’ll take a local boy over some asshole Imperial connection any day. Second, third, maybe a fourth kid and everyone will forget any questions about the first one. Assuming, of course, the blood grandfather doesn’t decide to crawl out of the woodwork and make a play.”
 
“And we have no idea who he is.” Phil’s shoulders slumped. 
 
“That’s where the supposition comes in. We can narrow it down by the physical characteristics in the families and those who were at the royal wedding, but that list is pretty long. Have to be someone who could and would keep the secret, so probably someone the King and Queen trusted or knew well enough to ask. That gets us down to between 40-50.” Nick shook his head. “But as far as I can tell, whoever it is has kept it quiet. There were only four people in the birthing room when you were born; your father and Bishop Cedric did the lineage spell afterwards in the chapel. ” 
 
“Winifred.” Phil looked at Clint. “She was my mother's closest friend.” 
 
“She’s never breathed a word.” Clint cast his mind back. “Never even hinted at anything out of the norm.”
 
“Maybe you ought to ask her.” Nick’s one eye turned to Clint with a focused gaze. “She may have secrets to tell you.” 
 
Silence fell and Nick raised an eyebrow in Clint's direction. It took a moment for him to realize it was Phil’s turn to share. 
 
“Oh, right, yeah, I’ll just go …” He started to rise, but Phil put a hand on his shoulder. 
 
“Stay.” She made it a request. “Please.”
 
“Are you sure?” He didn’t want to put any more pressure on her; she was going through enough already. “I don’t need to know.” 
 
She smiled. “You really wouldn’t be upset, would you?” 
 
“Anyone who says there’s nothing lurking in their past is lying,” he said, then jerked a finger towards Fury. “This guy over here taught me that.” 
 
“In my line of work, the most dangerous people are those who pretend they’re completely innocent, the ones who protest too much,” Nick said. “And this will go no further than my ears, I can promise you that. Ward’s Watch is falling into chaos faster than expected, and the syndicates are about to move in; the more I know, the better I can predict the fall out.” 
 
She reached for her cup and took a long swallow, a slight trembling in her fingers; after she put the drink down, he caught her hand again.   Then she began talking, her voice low enough that Clint had to lean forward to hear. 
 
“Grant’s passion was hunting. Three or four times a week, he’d saddle his horse and ride out into the king’s forest, be gone most of the day chasing whatever prey he’d sent the servants to roust. Stags, pheasant, fox, boar … people.” 
 
Nick’s brow furrowed and his gaze grew thunderous; the man was deadly when he was angry and hearing the worst rumors confirmed about Grant’s villainy would do it. But he didn’t interrupt and let Phil continue. 
 
“He was paranoid, with good cause. Christian killed their brother, Thomas; it wasn’t enough to send him away to the Church to be prayed over, Christian hired someone to slip poison in his brother’s so-called medication. He’d brag about it when he wanted to needle Grant, The only reason their father is still alive is the Widow, Melina. So Grant was always on guard, checked his bridle and tack himself, had a food taster for most meals, took his most loyal men with him everywhere. Even when he came to my chambers for his visits, he brought his guards and made me drink or eat anything before he’d touch it.” 
 
“Bastard,” Clint grumbled half under his breath. 
 
Nick kicked him under the table and glared at him; Phil squeezed his hand. 
 
“With him, it was a thousand cuts, a constant barrage of aggressions cloaked in courtly veneer. He’d romance the daughters of visiting nobility, but the women working in the castle were fair game for his violence. No one liked it -- the maids literally walked in packs of three and four, with a male servant if they could -- but there was little we could do about it without putting ourselves in his crosshairs. No one wanted to risk his anger … at least until Cairina. She was the sweetest girl. Simple, but always happy and willing to work hard at any task. Her mother had been a seamstress and, when she died, Cairina was already working as a scullery maid. She was so proud the day she was promoted to upstairs maid, and everyone loved her. She sang as she cleaned and even Prince Loki of Asgard was taken with her. On his visits as an envoy for his father, he would sit outside with her and tell story after story while she laughed. That was what drew Grant’s attention; he’d set his sights on making an alliance with Loki and instead the Prince spent all his time with Cairina.” 
 
She took another long drink, closing her eyes as she swallowed before she continued. 
 
“None of the usual servants would take Cairina to the woods; he had to pay double to one of Christian’s men to do it. He told her they were going to have a picnic with Loki and …” 
 
“It’s okay.” Nick said as she faltered. “I don’t need those details.” 
 
“Right.” She took a deep breath. “A week later, he took great delight in tormenting me with news about the search for Cairina’s killer on his morning visit; that was his favorite type of foreplay, inflicting emotional damage.”
 
Clint clenched his jaw and kept his mouth shut as his admiration for Phil grew even more. How she’d not only survived being married to that monster but was still able to show such love and tenderness to him was amazing. Since Grant was already dead, he banked his anger to save for the future; Christian Ward would someday pay for his part in the hurt inflicted on Phil. 
 
“It was easy enough to add the right herbs and other ingredients to the pot of coffee; one of Ororo’s mixes to ease menstrual pain would thin the blood, and enough valerian that would put a horse to sleep served to hide the taste of the mescaline. A straight up poison would be too obvious, but Grant always took risks, riding too fast, rushing ahead of his men, taking blind jumps. Melina pointed out many times that he would fall one day, break his neck, and save them the trouble.”
 
“Give him hallucinations and make him sleepy, ensure he’d bleed heavily. Remind me never to underestimate you.” Nick raised an eyebrow. “Drink it, go hunting, and it’s a recipe for disaster.” 
 
“Grant always had at least two cups; I suffer from migraines and coffee makes me sick to my stomach when I have one. So I took a few sips to show it wasn’t poisoned, then planned to call for the healer and go to bed in a cool, darkened room with a maid waiting on me . The little bit I ingested would be easy to sleep off.”
 
“A perfect alibi.” It took a lot to impress Nick; he’d been sure it was Christian or the Widow behind Grant’s death, a theory he’d shared with Clint. “The simpler the plan, the more likely it is to work.”
 
“Except I didn’t plan for Prince Loki to show up in my sitting room, asking to join Grant on the morning hunt. As soon as he heard of my headache, he sent for his personal healer; Grant was quite put out with the delay at leaving. He couldn’t wait to prove he was a better rider and hunter than Loki.” 
 
Suddenly, Loki’s little confession before they left made sense. A little push; had he helped Grant take the tumble that broke his neck? 
 
“Ah. Now that’s a tidbit I didn’t know. Loki was a mischievous little shit when he was younger, but he’s settled into his role of mage and scholar. Still an arrogant ass, but he’s inherited Frigga’s sense of justice for those weaker and at risk.” As usual, Nick was picking up on the nuances of Phil’s story, reading between the lines. “If he had a hand in it, there’s nothing left to find.” 
 
“One can only hope,” Phil told him. She seemed to sit easier in her chair now that the tale was told, as if sharing had sanded away some of the sharp memories. “And maybe, now that you know, you can use it as leverage on Christian, although, from what I’ve heard, he’s already drowning in debt to pay for his vices.” 
 
“So far he’s managed to talk his way out of it, but doesn’t realize he’s sold his soul to a worse devil than himself. Unfortunately, the syndicate will probably keep him as a proxy puppet as long as they can.” Nick sighed. “That’s the nature of this business; cut off the head of one evil and two more seem to grow in its place.” 
 
“It’s worth it even if you save only one,” Clint said. “That’s what you taught me and it’s true. That one could be the pebble that starts the avalanche of change.” 
 
“Good gods, Clint’s getting philosophical; that’s definitely a sign we need more whiskey.” Nick raised his voice. “And pie. Shop around the corner has the best cherry cream in the whole city, and they’re open late. A big piece would go well after we finish here. Stark? You in? ” 
 
Clint knew when Nick was done talking shop and to let him change the subject. The Spymaster played his cards close to his black leather vest; he was probably already six steps ahead of them. If he wanted to spend the evening drinking and eating, then there was no gainsaying him. 
 
“I'm always up for pie.” Tony leaned back in his chair as he answered. 
 
Steve chuckled. “You’re always up for anything.” 
 
“True.” Tony didn’t bother denying it. “But pie is a class unto its own.” 
 
Another round and they gathered again, conversation purposefully light and easy. When the bowls were all gone and the mugs empty, they followed Nick to a little shop tucked down a small alley where light shone through the rippled glass windows, and the smell of fresh bread and sweet glaze tempted them all inside. There was barely room for them all around the small tables, so they dragged them close and split up around the wooden circles with their slices. At one point, Clint found himself wedged by Nick and Steve, all three of them forming a protective line in front of the window; at another table, Phil had her back in the corner, Tony on one side, Natasha and Daisy squeezed in on the other. Tony was regaling the women with an increasingly outlandish tale about an Imperial cousin, her clueless husband, a young lover, a second flood, and a red hot poker. 
 
“You know,” Nick mused after he swallowed a bit of the flaky pastry. “Seems to me there’s a lot of ways to serve the Empire that don’t come at the cost of court politics.” 
 
“If you’re angling to get me to work for you, not going to happen.” Steve was on his second slice; the man seemed to have a hollow leg when it came to sweets. 
 
“Nah, that’s Clint’s thing.” Nick winked at Clint. “I’m thinking more along the lines of guarding the future heir; gonna need someone of unimpeachable character to protect the kid.” 
 
“Pretty sure Clint and Natasha have that covered.” Steve cocked his head and looked at Nick. “Whatever your angle, out with it. I prefer straight talk to all these veiled suggestions.” 
 
“Kid’s gonna be a magnet for trouble. Not too many of Wunagan’s line left, but there’s lots of other contenders who’ll think control of the heir means control of the Empire. Natasha is formidable, but she’s used to operating in the shadows. Too many remember Clint as Winifred’s poor relation, and it will take time to prove otherwise. But a decorated war hero, member of the Emperor’s personal guard? The hero of Dunstan Bridge? You’d bring a level of respectability and show Wunnie’s serious about shifting the line of succession,” Nick explained.
 
Steve thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I can see that.” 
 
“And you’ll be close to visit your friends outside Merton and share Tony’s bed. In Starkridge.”  Nick dropped that little bomb and sat back to enjoy startling Steve into a sputtering denial. 
 
“I’m not … I don’t …” 
 
Nick laughed. “If you’re not now, you will be soon. Man looks at you like you’re a rare piece of art and a fine Palmerian wine rolled into one. It will be good for his kingdom to settle down with a man of integrity once he boots Stane out.”
 
“It would be good to know you’ve got Phil’s back,” Clint interjected before Nick could give Steve more grief. It meant Nick liked the guard, something Clint would tell him later. “There’s going to be a big target on her and any heirs.” 
 
“Yeah, that’s true.” Steve’s eyes were drawn to the other table. “But it’s what the Empire needs; new blood and some moral integrity.” 
 
“Well, the new blood, sure, but the rest …” Clint shrugged. “That’s Phil’s area of expertise.” 
 
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Steve said. “Standing up for what’s right is sorely needed in the Imperial city; too many willing to do anything for something as fleeting as power. Look at Lady Nnedi, engineering assassinations to put her son on the throne, playing the long game all those years, only to die herself at her cousin’s hands.”
 
“So many lost to a parent’s obsession with setting their lineage above others, and Garrett doesn’t even want to be the heir,” Nick added. 
 
Something about the statement niggled at Clint’s brain. Playing a long game. A parent’s obsession. Lineage above all. It was one of the things that brought them all together. 
 
Tony’s father had been obsessed with Tony being the best artificer in the world, and it had driven a wedge between them, one that Obediah stepped into all too willingly, biding his time and playing the kindly mentor until he made his move. Daisy’s father abandoned her and her mother ran Afterlife, a group that believed in lineage purity. Natasha didn’t know either of her parents, stolen by the Red Room that made the most highly trained assassins in the world. Steve, the sickly boy left to live with his best friend’s family, running off to save the world and becoming part of a secret plan to make blood soldiers.
 
Phil with a loving father and gracious stepmother, now discovering the truth, learning there was someone else out there, someone who had kept quiet for years. A long game indeed. And then there was Clint himself, his parents lost at sea, mother a distant blurred memory of blonde hair and soft voice., Winifred taking him in, growing up without the benefit of full lineage, always reminded that his blood was less than everyone else’s. 
 
“Huh.” The thought circled and settled. 
 
“I know that look,” Nick said. “What is it?” 
 
“Why now?” he asked. “We’ve been so busy asking how they did it, who made the spell, why they did it. It’s what Steve said, about playing the long game. It took years to develop the spell, so what was the purpose of removing Phil’s family from the board right now?” 
 
“That’s a good question.” Steve sat back as he thought about it. “From my briefing, there was nothing major happening in Coulfell.” 
 
“Will was about to get married, Betsy’s from Braddock’s Gate, the twin sister of Brian. They’ve known each other a long time and it’s a good solid match.” He stopped, remembered. “Was. Was a good match.”
 
“It was popular at court,” Steve said. “Strategically and in terms of the moderate coalition. Plus if someone wanted to stop the wedding, there are easier and more effective ways to do it.” 
 
“Same could be said about Coulfell politics in general,” Clint mused. “Nothing worth going to such excessive ends.”
 
“Unless it’s not about Coulfell at all,” Nick said. “The rumors are true; Wunagan’s sick. He’s keeping it quiet; not even Garrett knows.” 
 
“Wait. You think someone killed a whole blood line to make a play for the Imperial throne?” Steve shook his head. “The Coulsons weren’t even that close in lineage; how does that help?” 
 
“Everyone knows the Emperor would jump at the chance to replace Garrett; Phil’s first option would be to ask for support and take the Emperor’s offer of marriage.” It was coming together in Clint’s head. 
 
“They bide their time, wait until the moment Wunagan’s the most desperate, when the Imperial Council will be more than willing to accept an alternative and engineer a situation to make it possible.” Nick finished the thought. 
 
“They’d have to know that Phil would survive …” Steve stopped, his eyes widening. “Oh. That’s why it didn’t work on her; someone knew it wouldn’t.” 
 
“Gods’ blood. All those good people. Gone.” Clint drained the last of his drink. “When I find the instigator, I’m going to kill them. Slowly and as painfully as possible.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”

The list was a who’s who of her parent’s generation; of the 47 names almost all of them were recognizable, people she’d met at one time or another or knew well. Nick hadn’t been joking when he’d said the major noble houses were all interrelated; six of the names were men who’d died by the spell, enough Coulson blood in their veins. That fact had sent her to Daisy and Tony, wondering exactly how much lineage was needed to be caught up in the deadly scourge; Tony had given her some long-winded scientific answer and Daisy had said, “An eighth, or three generations.”  Like Sam had explained, beyond that, the spell couldn’t differentiate.
 
Beyond those six, she was able to cut out seven more based upon her mother and father’s opinions of certain families and personalities. Regardless of how they acted at court, behind closed doors they had strong feelings about some of their peers. They’d have gone with someone they could trust, so anyone from the Gonzales, Talbot, or Mace families were out.Then she grouped them by least to most likely -- who was easily available, who already had a relationship with her family, and who would agree to keep quiet. What surprised her the most was how many people close to her were on the list. Maria’s father. Howard Stark. Sue and Johnny’s father. Some were on her council: Alastair Fitz, Harold Simmons, even Melinda’s father Kenson. She’s forgotten he was Nathaniel Richards’ brother and uncle to Reed. 
 
“Are you looking at the list again?” Clint asked as he came into the cabin. “I thought we decided there was nothing we could do until we got back.” 
 
“I know, it’s just …” She could help running a finger over the inked names. “It feels like I’m missing something.” 
 
“Always does.” He reached out a hand and she let him pull her up. “I find that when I quit trying to make sense of something, it comes to me eventually. Best thing to do is put it aside for now and go have some dinner. They’ve set up a table on the poop deck so we can watch the sunset.” 
 
“Nakia’s been so good to us.” Phil grabbed her jacket before they left the cabin in case it got chilly. “We’ve knocked her off her schedule and still she’s taking us back to Piste.” 
 
“That’s what friends do,” Clint said as they headed up the stairs to the main deck. “You have a lot of them, Phil. Never lose sight of that.”
 
The shadows were already starting to spread across the wooden planks; this was their last night onboard and everyone was feeling the tension. Tony had been pouring over the information on Obediah and the rot ran deep; Steve had been working hard to keep his increasingly outrageous plans of retribution in check. More than just Tony’s kingdom, the conspiracy reached out across the Empire, leaders and people in positions of power willing to bend the rules for their own benefit. Phil wasn’t happy to see Obediah had reached into Coulfell, dangling money and prestige to gain information. It didn’t surprise her to see Alstair had taken the bait; he’d been disappointed when Leo had opted to go to artificer’s school instead of into politics. Harald Simmons, of course; he was always pressing Jemma to reach for more, positioning her for a role of leadership, and jockeying for power at court. But Jasper’s father? He’d always been content as Lord of Sit’s Well and happy with Jasper’s marriage to Maria. What did he gain from an alliance? It could be, of course, that the men thought Obediah was simply what he appeared to be -- the stewart of Starkridge, a powerful man in his own right. Obediah had put on a good show of mourning Tony and being a caring leader; maybe they hadn’t seen the money grubbing amoral person beneath. It did explain how Obediah knew so much about Phil’s situation; Alstair and Harald were on the Council and privy to most, but thankfully not all, of the state’s secrets. 
 
“You need to roll in the direction of the punch, let their momentum work for you,” Natasha was saying as Phil came up the stairs to the quarterdeck. “Easier to make them overextend and use their weight as a fulcrum to flip them off balance.” 
 
In the middle of the space, Daisy was circling Steve, eyeing his every move. In a pair of leather pants and simple wrap shirt, she had her hair pulled back and was sweating despite the growing chill of the coming night. As Phil watched, Daisy feinted to the left then tried to swing around behind; Steve, stripped down to his undershirt and pants, easily sidestepped and landed a gentle tap on Daisy’s arm. She took the touch and reached out to clasp his wrist, spinning on her heel and attempting to toss him over her shoulder. He barely moved,and she ended up stumbling from the inertia. 
 
“Good.” Steve patted her on the shoulder. “Next time get a little farther away, make me have to reach out to tag you. The overextension helps.” 
 
Phil raised an eyebrow at Tony who was leaning against the rail; he shrugged then grinned. 
 
“Pre-dinner floor show,” he said as Clint and Phil joined him. “Can’t say I mind.” 
 
“I’m too small,” Daisy complained. “You’re big like an anchor. How can I ever take you down?” 
 
“Phil could do it,” Clint said. “She trained with Melinda; they had a WuXia instructor.” 
 
“Indeed?” Natasha’s gaze turned her way, a calculating look in her eye. “Now that I’d like to see.” 
 
“I don’t think …” Phil began.
 
At the same time, Steve said, “I wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt Her Majesty.” 
 
She reached up and unbuttoned her jacket, handing it to Clint. “Oh, don’t worry. You won’t.” 
 
In two steps she closed the distance. Steve instinctively recoiled, his first impulse to move out of the way; she used the motion to get a foot on his half-bent knee and a hand in his hair, pulling herself up and around, her knees on either side of his head. As he reached up, aiming to grab her hips and tug her down, she dropped her head, bending her back, driving her elbows into Steve’s solar plexus. With a loud rush, the air left his lungs and she spread her hands on the deck, using his momentary distraction to knock him off balance and flip him over with her thighs. He landed on his back with a satisfying thump; a round of applause came from the gathered watchers. 
 
“Remind me never to piss you off, Phil,” Tony said. “That looks pretty painful.”
 
“Excellent,” was Natasha’s response. “A woman’s lower body strength is an asset; men tend to rely upon their chest and shoulders. And using the thigh grip to the face and neck discomforts men.” 
 
“Discomfort isn’t the word I’d use.” Steve took Phil’s proffered hand. “Not sure which hurts more, my back or my pride. I have to stop making assumptions about you, Phil.” 
 
“In your defense, most noble women couldn’t do that.” Phil smiled at him. “And I did have the element of surprise.” 
 
“Great job.” Clint leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “So, that thigh thing?  Will you …” 
 
“Come on, Clint,” Natasha said as she tossed her jacket on a coil of rope. She tossed a staff towards Clint. “Our turn.”  
 
“Ooooh, yes.” Tony clapped his hands as Clint caught the length of wood and began to spin it over his hand. “Sit by me, Daisy; we’re about to have a real show.” 
 
Phil moved out of the way, more than a little interested in seeing Clint and Natasha sparring with Steve. While in Ward’s Watch, she’d worked with Melina and knew a little of what a Widow was capable of, but it had been years since she’d seen Clint training and, back then, he’d been learning swordplay along with Will and Tophe. And sparring with Steve? Tony was right; this was going to be entertaining. Especially when Clint doffed his coat and revealed his muscular arms. 
 
“Now, who do you think has the advantage of the three of us?” Natasha addressed her question to Daisy. 
 
“Steve,” was her immediate answer. “He’s an Imperial Guard and has war experience. Probably lots of training, and, well, look at his chest and shoulders. He’s strong.”
 
“Strength can be turned against itself,” Phil said. “Bigger doesn’t mean better.” 
 
“Exactly.” Natasha nodded. “Clint?” 
 
Without needing any more direction, Clint slowly began circling, spinning the staff lazily. In a beat, he went limber, his smile taking on a challenging edge. This Clint was something altogether different, a man who might appear relaxed but was clearly a danger. Phil’s mouth went dry as he rolled his shoulders, the play of tense and release highlighting his biceps; he winked baldly at her and did it again. That was when Steve struck, lunging out with his wooden practice sword, aiming to take advantage of Clint’s seeming distraction. The clunk was loud as the staff blocked the thrust, Clint spinning on his heel, avoiding the follow up parry. 
 
“Speed is a variable of height, weight, and training,” Natasha said from where she was watching the by-play. “Clint’s not as tall as Steve, and he’s worked with acrobats and aerialists. Sometimes, the way to survive is to not be where they think you are.” 
 
Steve whipped around and thrust, a lethal plunge of sword tip at the spot where Clint’s motion should have ended, but Clint dropped and rolled under the attack, popping back up on Steve’s left to tap him on the shoulder. 
 
“A solid hit could numb or even take out the arm,” Natasha continued. “Fighting is often a war of attrition; little by little, you wear them down.” 
 
Faster than Phil could follow, Steve lunged to the right, forcing Clint to dance away, then feinted to the left, going for Clint’s knees. There was barely time for Clint to respond; he sprang up, jumping over Steve’s sword. As soon as he landed, he was in motion, not waiting for Steve’s counter -- an upward slash that should have caught Clint’s vulnerable thigh -- bouncing off the balls of his feet into a backward flip followed by a spin. Clint snapped his staff up, catching Steve’s left flank, twisted it around his body and brought it down on Steve’s right forearm.
 
“Flexibility is important too,” Natasha said. “See how Steve has to shift his whole upper body when he turns? He’s used to holding a shield and that limits movement. Clint’s balance is lower and he can change it quickly.” 
 
“Oh, it’s on.” Steve grinned, clearly enjoying the challenge. 
 
Clint dipped his head in acknowledgement and then the fight truly began. 
 
It was like an elaborately staged dance, a give and take between masters of their disciplines. Steve’s sword darted and slashed and whipped through the air; for someone seeming made of solid muscle, he could be quick and nimble, moving with an economy of motions. Clint’s staff flipped and whirled and blocked each attack; he flowed from one position to the next, sometimes so fast he was a blur, landing blows and keeping just out of reach. Just when she thought Steve was going to lose to Clint’s rapid paced attacks, Steve launched himself into a vertical spin, sword tip touching Clint’s upper arm and his left side before he landed, upright once more. 
 
“So that’s how it is?” Clint asked, voice slightly winded. 
 
“That’s how it is,” Steve agreed. 
 
“Well then …” Clint feinted right, jumped up on a barrel, then ran up the railing to the poop deck three steps before he flipped backward, over Steve’s head, twisting his body in midair to rain blows down as he went; Steve barely had time to counter them before Clint landed, somehow on his feet, completely changed direction and rolled as he swept his staff at Steve’s feet, whacking one ankle before Steve could jump out of the way. 
 
“That’s …” Daisy started. 
 
“Hot as hell,” Tony finished, his eyes roaming over Steve. 
 
Heat blossomed between Phil’s legs; her clit throbbed and her nipples tightened as she watched Clint bob and weave and tumble. Sweat glazed his skin, his hair soaked at the nape of his neck -- and he was grinning as he fought, enjoying the sparring of what was clearly an equal opponent. The hands he had wrapped around the wooden length had been on her skin, had caressed her breasts, slid through her slick folds, had stoked her from the inside out, and she had to clench her thighs as the throb grew into an aching need. The image of wrapping her legs around his head and rubbing against his face flashed across her mind and she had to bite her lip from moaning out loud. 
 
“So who do you think will win?” Natasha’s question to Daisy gave Phil something to focus on other than the pounding of her heart. 
 
“They seem pretty evenly matched,” Daisy replied, but the girl tilted her head and watched for another few seconds. “But I have to go with Steve. Clint’s fast and all, but his style of fighting takes a lot of energy and Steve may be able to wait him out.” 
 
“Very astute.” Natasha smiled. “Unless, of course, Clint’s just pretending to get winded or is wearing Steve down for someone else to finish him off.” 
 
Without warning, she entered the fray; two running steps and she was sliding across the deck, through Clint’s legs and under Steve’s extended arm. Using the elbow as a fulcrum, she twisted his wrist with her other hand, and somehow ran up Steve’s body, vaulting over him and landing with his sword in her hand. 
 
“Whoa.” Daisy’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. 
 
“You said it,” Tony agreed. 
 
“Well, now.” Steve smiled. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” 
 
What followed was one of the most amazing displays of fighting skills Phil had ever seen. Clint and Natasha worked seamlessly together, their styles interweaving; Clint would attack, draw Steve out, then Natasha would slip under his guard and land a blow. Natasha would dart in, twist Steve up, and Clint would come from behind. Like an elaborate dance, they were perfect partners, completing each other’s movements in unexpected ways. But even without a weapon of his own, Steve held them both off, getting in his own blows; he wasn’t as acrobatic as Clint or flexible as Natasha, but he surprised them with spinning kicks and balletic leaps. He might have been heavier, more grounded, but he was fast and had an uncanny sense of what they were going to do next. It was only when Nakia appeared and announced that supper was ready that they called a stop. 
 
“Here,” Nakia said, offering them towels. “And thank you for the demonstration for the crew. Okoye will be upset she wasn’t here to participate.”
 
“Tell the General I look forward to a future contest,” Steve said, wiping sweat from his brow. 
 
“Perhaps after an heir is born, you can all visit Coulfell,” Phil added as they proceeded up the stairs to the higher deck. “And we’ll arrange a tournament; Melinda would love to have a chance to spar with her again too.” 
 
“Ah.” Nakia settled into the chair held out for her at the head of the table. “It’s been decided then? Steve is staying with you? I had wondered.” 
 
“Dependent upon the Emperor’s will, of course,” Phil replied as she took her place. “But I don't think he'll say no to the request.” 
 
“And it puts the good Captain close to Tony,” Nakia said, “after he decides the best plan to regain his throne.”
 
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Tony held up his goblet to be filled from a full wine skin. “Everyone is ganging up on me, stealth over confrontation. It’s just not as fun if I don’t get to burst through the doors and kick Obie in his privileged, lying ass.” 
 
“Drama isn’t always the answer,” Steve said. “But there is something to be said for a good speech given  face-to-face.” 
 
“Exactly!” Tony pointed at Steve. “Righteous indignation and moral superiority!” 
 
“There’s room for that once you’ve secured your victory,” Natasha argued. “When your opponent is pressed into a corner and has no way out, then you can gloat.” 
 
“Fine.” Tony sipped his wine. “I’ll do it your way but I better get my moment.” 
 
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Phil said.
 
They determinedly didn’t talk anymore about tomorrow; the food was spicy, the juice sweet on the lips, and the wine mellow mouthfuls, so they laughed and told stories until the sun disappeared below the horizon. Lanterns were lit and the moon shone bright enough that they stayed until the last drop was poured and the tray of plum tarts was empty.  How comfortable she felt surprised Phil; she’d known Natasha and Steve for just over a fortnight, Daisy for even less, and still, they were like old friends. Maybe the saying about blood bonds forged in fire and ice was true; their traumas might be different but they all were dealing with tragedy and sacrifice. 
 
Steve and Tony disappeared down the aft stairs, hands intertwined and Tony’s eyes sparkling with planned mischief. Daisy headed off to her bunk with the women and children while Natasha had taken Okoye’s small room; both of them hung back to talk to Nakia as Phil and Clint left the deck. They barely shut the door before she wound her fist in his shirt and yanked him into a kiss, the arousal from earlier only banked and easily simmering back to flames. 
 
“So that’s a yes to sparring as foreplay, eh?” Clint chuckled as he began trailing kisses down her neck. “I’ll admit I was hot and bothered watching that maneuver you did on Steve, thinking about what I’d do if you wrapped your thighs around my head. How I’d taste you, lick my way into your gorgeous flushed folds and eat you up.” 
 
“Oh.” A blush rose on Phil’s cheeks at his blunt language. “Wouldn’t you feel smothered? That move is supposed to choke the person.” 
 
“Honestly, dying with my face buried between your legs is the way to go.” He nipped at the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Shall we give it a try?” 
 
They shed their clothes in a flurry of hands and even some teeth. The maneuvering took a few awkward turns and Phil laughed as she almost slipped off the edge of the bunk, Clint joining in when his foot tangled in his shirt, making him land hard enough to rattle the candlestick on the window sill. But they got it worked out and Phil straddled Clint’s broad shoulders, lowering herself then rocking with him as wrapped his arms around her thighs and buried his face deep, licking and sucking on the sensitive folds and throbbing nub. His scruffy jawline rubbed and tickled along the soft inner skin, and she gasped, the sensation releasing tendrils of heat that curled up and centered in her clit. Clint chased every little sound, drove her higher with his talented mouth, spread her legs wider until his fingers could open her wide so he could delve inside. The world fell away; all she knew was the growing orgasm, the tightening that spun heat through her body. When he rolled her clit with his tongue and pressed the tangle of nerves at her core, she came with a cry, eyes squeezed shut as the ecstasy swamped her senses. 
 
Fuzzy with the pleasure, she sagged against the wall as Clint slipped out from under her; he gently tugged her hips, pulling her back until her hands dropped to the bed and he was behind her, his cock pressing in, filling her up and causing tremors to dance along her skin. He helped her ease down onto her elbows and rest her head on her crossed arms, his fingers stroking the knobs of her spine. Then he began to thrust, slow at first then faster; his hands held her still, wrapped around her waist, and she relaxed into it, letting him set his pace and just taking it. There was something exciting about this side of submission, she thought, the shifting back and forth, her riding him, now him riding her. And when he came, she felt the satisfaction of knowing she’d given him the same release he’d done for her. 
 
“Gods, Phil.” Clint slumped over her, sweaty chest sliding over her back so he could drop a kiss at the nape of her neck. “You’re amazing.” 
 
She mumbled her reply, half-aware and floating in a pool of contentment; he chuckled but heaved himself up and cleaned them up before he nudged her onto her side and curled up behind her, covering them with the blanket. 
 
“Go to sleep, darlin’.” His arms wrapped around her. “Gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 
  
“You’re sure this is okay?” Daisy asked as they stepped out of the boat and onto the sand of the sheltered cove. “I can head back to Bruce and Betty’s place if I’m going to be in the way.”
 
“You said you were born in Coulfell,” Phil reminded the young woman. “Birth records are stored in the castle’s archives, so that’s the place to start. If there’s something there to find, Melinda’s the one to do it. Plus I could use a fresh voice; most of the mages were around when my father was a young man and tend to be pretty hidebound.” 
 
“Yeah, I’ve met a few of those; most of the professors at school were ancient. The Don of the theoretical division was the Emperor’s first tutor.” Daisy wrinkled her nose. “He literally couldn’t hear and just sat in front of class and droned on … when he wasn’t asleep.” 
 
“Was that Lantese?” Tony asked, stepping careful over the wet rocks until he got to the hard packed sand. “The man discovered how to read blood through the skin and never did another damn thing. I can’t believe he’s still teaching; must be all that ice wine he drinks that’s frozen his veins.” 
 
“Rumor is he has some significant dirt on the Archbishop and Thaddeus of Ross.” Steve offered Phil his hand over a particularly slick patch of coastline. “Any attempt to retire him or if he dies under mysterious circumstances and he reveals all.” 
 
“The Archbishop has a thing for young boys,” Natasha said as they started up the trail, a steep rise then easy switchbacks to the top. “Ross plays things close to the vest, but he’s far too mixed up in the blood soldier program to not be involved in something dark. My money’s on forcibly testing on non-volunteers; that’s Thaddeaus’s style.” 
 
“Betty said he’s getting desperate,” Daisy said. “I’m glad I’ve never met him; he sounds like a bigot and that’s from his own daughter. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I’m better off not knowing who my dad is.” 
 
“Asshole Father Club,” Tony agreed. “Betty and I are founding members.” 
 
They reached the top and headed into the corpse of trees that spread along the coastline; glancing over her shoulder, Phil saw the longboat being drawn up and Nakia’s ship preparing to weigh anchor. The smuggler’s trail they were following was two candle marks away from the port of Piste and only a short distance from the border of Coulfell. They’d decided to land here because of the proximity to Mariton; Steve had sent a message ahead to Sam to bring the horses and Phil’s went to Melinda, warning of their arrival. By supper time, they’d be at the lodge and Phil would face the outcome of her decisions. 
 
A falcon’s screech sounded and wings fluttered; a beautiful bird swooped in and Steve held out his arm for it to land on his leather bracer. He stroked its head as Sam appeared, coming towards them on a chestnut mare. Behind him, Bucky rode a dappled stallion; they were leading a string of saddled horses. 
 
“Hey, man,” Sam greeted as he came to a halt. The falcon flapped twice then flew back to its master, settling on Sam’s pommel. “I see you managed to not get lost and find your way back. You finally getting a direction sense?” 
 
“One time.” Steve groused as he clasped Sam’s arm. “In the Quinling Forest where, may I remind you, the whole troop couldn’t find their way out of the Sundering Deeps.” 
 
“You wandered around all day trying to find the guard station the first time you were in Triafyrd,” Bucky said. “And then there was that snipe hunt …” 
 
“Fine, fine, I’m not my best without a map.” Steve grinned at his friends then waved his hand. “But we’re all here, safe and sound.”
 
“Tony?” Bucky’s eyes widened as he recognized the man standing just behind Steve. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
 
“Could say the same about you, Jamie Boy.” Tony cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “Seems we both went a round with death and came out the winner, eh?” 
 
“It’s a long story,” Steve explained. “Let’s get going and we can explain.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

We were never perfect.

Yet, the journey we make together is perfect on this earth who was

once a star and made the same mistakes as humans.

We might make them again, she said.

Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.

You must make your own map.

Joy Harjo “ A Map to the Next World ” 
 “Rhodey Bear!” Tony called as soon as he saw James Rhodes and Trip waiting for them by the stable. Slipping off his horse, he held out his arms and hugged his friend.  “Lord Anthony?” Trip asked, his surprise evident on his face. “You’re alive?”  “And kicking.” Tony grinned over James’ shoulder. “Plus I’ve brought your Queen back all safe and sound.”  “Is this what you call keeping a low profile?” Rhodey huffed as he pulled back and looked Tony over. “It’s time,” Tony replied. “Thanks to Phil and her friends, I’ve got the evidence I need to take him down. I do remember promising to come get you when I was ready to face him.”  “Damn straight.” Rhodes punched his friend in the arm. “You’ve returned at the right moment; Garrett saddled his horse and left this morning.”  “Someone paid him to end the handfasting with an unlimited credit line; pretty sure it wasn’t one of the syndicates. Most of them packed up and left a few days after we did a sweep of the city,” Trip added as he held Lola’s reins so Phil could dismount. “Before Garrett went, he left a statement of recusal, abdicating his position as heir in favor of the child.”  “He what?” Clint couldn’t stop the question from popping out of his mouth.  “Melinda argued with him, but he was adamant. Kept saying he was bored, and he was sure Phil was already pregnant,” Trip explained.  “Laughed about how the rival factions could fight it out now and he’d be out of the line of fire.”  “God’s blood,” Steve cursed. “He’s really a piece of work, isn’t he? The Emperor’s going to be livid. You know how he is about Outer Rim lawlessness, and now Garrett’s handed them a reason to go to war with each other?”  “I’m glad you’re back. As Captain of the Guard, you get to write and tell him,” Rhodes said, slapping Steve on the shoulder. Then his eyes landed on the other two men and his mouth dropped open. “Bucky? Sam? I thought …”  “Lord Anthony’s not the only one who can come back from the dead,” Sam said.  “Thought it best to keep it quiet, what with all the shit that went down.”  “Man, you don’t know how good it is to see you. That whole situation was …” Rhodes broke off when Sam hugged him. “What are you doing here?”  “Much as I hate to agree with Stark over there, it’s time.” Bucky was the one who answered; he settled for a hand clasp. “Stevie landed himself right in the middle of this and someone’s got to watch his back.”  “Twenty-to-one odds on manly tears,” Natasha said, sotto voice, from where she was standing behind Clint and Phil, “any minute now.”  As Phil started to turn to say something to her, Clint heard the tell-tale twang of a bowstring. “Get down!” he shouted as he grabbed Phil and dropped to the ground.  He braced himself, sure there were more arrows incoming, but all he heard was a series of hollow thunks. Looking up, he saw Daisy, arms raised over her head, face screwed up in intense concentration, a shimmering shield protecting them from the barrage of sharpened tips and wooden shafts.   “Can you …” Steve started to ask.  “I’ve got this,” Daisy said. “Once you take cover, I can handle it.”  Clint scrambled up, arm wrapped around Phil; Trip was there before he could let go.  “The stable’s clear,” Trip announced. “Get the Queen and Lord Anthony inside.”  Phil hesitated.  “Go,” Clint tugged his bow and quiver from Lucky’s saddle, connected the string, and made eye-contact with Natasha who gave him a sharp nod. “Nat’s got your back, and I’ll be fine.”  “You better be.” Phil had her dagger in her hand.  He waited until the others were in motion before he eyed the arc of the arrows, judging distance and angle as he traced it back to its spot of origin. Taking a deep breath, he lined up the shot then glanced at Steve who was standing, sword drawn, beside Sam and Bucky, Rhodey and the other guards just behind them.  “Hold on to your teeth,” Daisy murmured.  With an audible grunt of effort, she spread her hands and punched her palms upward. The shield shuddered, magic splintering and flying apart, shimmering daggers that sped in front and behind her. The ground trembled as the concussive force spread in the direction she’d aimed, shaking the trees like a stormy gust of wind. Clint braced his feet like he was on the deck of a ship, letting arrows fly as soon as he saw movement in the forest, hitting at least three targets before the attackers burst out of the eaves.  “Hold the line,” Steve ordered as Daisy drew the shield back together just in time to prevent another smaller volley from landing. “And protect the mage.”  They wore simple leather tunics with heavy bracers, tied off hoods, and masks that obscured their faces, but their weapons were high quality and well-maintained.  Professionals who moved with purpose and intent, they attacked all at once in an attempt to overwhelm them. Clint barely had time to fire off a few more shots before he had to sling the bow across his shoulders and draw his sword to wade into the melee. He found himself facing a slim man who fought with two blades; it took all his attention to parry the blows until he caught a gap in the defense and took him out of play. The second was big and broad, swinging a battle axe in deadly sweeps; Clint ducked under his reach and came up with his own sharp edge. Then there was a third and a fourth and Clint found himself bumping elbows with Bucky as even more assailants appeared.  “Too many,” Bucky said as he slashed and dodged, “for a simple assassination.”  He was right; as Clint spun to avoid another blade, he saw Daisy’s hands shaking. They could protect her but her magic couldn’t last. The longer this went on, the more energy she was draining.  “They knew how many to send,” he said.  A cold knot settled in the pit of his stomach; he risked a glance at the stable and saw Trip, one of his men, and an Imperial guard fighting, pressed back against the door.   “On your left,” Steve said as he plowed through a knot of mercenaries, leaving a swath of moaning people on the ground. “We need to end this. Daisy’s running out of energy.”  “Mont Montour or Salindra Gully?” Sam asked.  “Hibart Lake,” Bucky answered, coming up on their right.  “Clint, can you get to the roof and take out anyone who gets around us?” Steve asked as he shifted his grip on his sword.  “Not a problem.” He eyed the rain barrel and the short hop up to catch the low hanging eave. “Just tell me when.”  “Now.”  He wasn’t sure when he’d come to trust Steve but he didn’t hesitate, taking off at a run; twisting around a sword slash, he launched himself up, scrabbling onto the stable roof.  Just on the edge of Daisy’ shield, he switched to his bow and started targeting where the arrows were coming from, tracing arcs back into the trees. From his vantage point, he watched Steve charge into the heart of the fray and realized he’d pulled his punches when they’d been sparring. With brutal efficiency, Rogers cut a swath through his opponents; with Sam on his right and Bucky on his left, they cleared a path for Rhodey and the other guards to sweep up after them. For a moment, Cint had a glimpse at exactly why the Church and government had pursued the blood soldier spells; a troop of men like Steve and Bucky could easily tip the balance of any battle.  A cry grabbed Clint’s attention and he swiveled his head just in time to see an attacker take a swing at Daisy; she danced out his reach, the shield flickering as she did. With a quick shot, Clint took care of him, but Daisy stumbled and dropped to one knee.   “Steve!” Clint shouted. Before Rogers could respond, Trip was there, helping Daisy up and letting her brace herself against his broad back. The shield reappeared just as another volley hit, thankfully smaller than before, from only three shooters. It gave Clint the locations he needed to finish them off, arrows zinging through the air in quick succession. By the time he looked down again, the last of the assailants were on the ground and Steve had one kneeling at his feet, face unmasked. Still, he stayed where he was, eying the surrounding trees for any last lurkers.  “I thought you were retired, Meckal,” Steve said to the man he had held at sword point.  “You know how it is,” the man said with a shrug. “Needed the money and people pay for Imperial training. If I’d have known you were going to be here, I’d have turned the job down.”  “Who hired you? What was the objective?” Steve asked.  “Payment came through a guild intermediary, so I can’t help you there,” Meckal answered. “A snatch and grab; the team leader knew the target, we were the distraction.  Wondered when I saw how many of us there were, but the pay was enough to set up me for at least a year. Had no clue the Queen would be here; Guild won’t take kindly to being in the middle of any royal feuds.”  “The leader …”  “Dead.” Meckal nodded towards an unmoving body. “All I know is we were to fall back after he gave the signal the package was collected.”  “Damn it.” Steve lowered his sword and turned to the others. “We need to call in healers for the wounded and bury the dead. Trip, send word to the palace; Sam can you …”  “On it.” Sam headed into the stable. “I’ll get my supplies.”  “Tell the guild that the Queen is under Imperial protection,” Steve said as he offered the man a hand up. “A strike against her is the same as an attempt on the Emperor.”  “Ah, I see.” Meckal favored his left leg as he stood. “Glad I’m just a sign-on; whoever approved the operation will take the brunt of the Master’s displeasure. She’s issued a no-go rule for Imperial assassinations.”  Bucky headed off into the woods to do a sweep while Sam moved from wounded to wounded, shifting seamlessly from fighter to healer. Rhodey rounded up his men and took care of the dead. From his vantage point, Clint kept an eye on the whole area, a niggle of uncomfort making him unable to relax. Guild rules called for the humane treatment of survivors, and he agreed it was simpler when both sides abided by them. Wasn’t the mercenary’s fault if he was hired in good faith; that’s what contract negotiators were for, to mediate and make sure guild members weren’t misled or misused. If someone had lied about the job, then heads would roll. And therein lay the problem; even the Syndicate and powerful families wouldn’t cross the Guild. They had their own ranks of men and women willing to do anything.  Hell, the Syballines had been known to loan out their private army, once, notably, as back up guards for an Imperial visit to their islands.  No, the person behind this was more likely one of the greedy Lords, seeking to take advantage.  There were still so many who wanted Phil out of the way; even with Captain Steve Rogers protecting her, she was going to be in so much danger. Clint tamped down on the urge to steal her away and find some remote cabin, preferably on a beach somewhere, to live out the rest of their lives in obscurity; one of her most endearing traits was her sense of loyalty and duty. She’d never abandon her people and, gods above and below, Clint loved that about her.  So he kept a close eye on the clean up, on alert for any odd behavior. He saw Bucky return and the all clear sign he gave Steve. Watched Trip bring fresh water to Daisy who’d sat down on a bench in the Lodge’s small garden. Counted the living and wounded as Rhodey headed out to take them back to the city. Made note of everyone who remained behind and marked their locations when Phil and Tony emerged from the stable.  “You just let them go?” Tony demanded as he stormed across the yard. “They saw me! And they tried to kill us all.”  “The secret’s out,” Steve replied. “They knew when we arrived, Tony. Probably been trailing us.”  “Probably had people staking out the various routes to the lodge,” Natasha said as strolled past Tony. She had a small cut on her forearm, but otherwise looked none the worse for wear. “We were seen in Piste before we left for Culver; they could extrapolate that we’d be coming back the same way.”  “Well, if it was Obie, he had to get an intermediary to hire them,” Tony insisted. “He has to use the Eastern League for his dirty work; the Mercenary Guild and he had a falling out a few years ago. He refused to pay for a job that went wrong.”  “Maybe it’s the guy who did the original spell,” Daisy suggested. “They’re still in play.”  “I don’t think so.” Phil’s eyes traced the area until she looked up and saw Clint. Then she smiled and nodded. “Why would he …”  It was the smallest of motion, a hand reaching back just a little too far, and Clint was moving, sliding to the eave and launching himself in the air before the knife appeared and flew towards its target. Everyone else reacted too slowly, the shining silver blade halfway to its target as Steve pivoted towards the guard and Trip jumped up. Clint’s aim, however, was as perfect as ever. He pushed Phil into Tony, using his body weight to shove them out of the way before the knife pierced his back and sank deep, knocking the air out of his lungs.  “Clint!” Phil grabbed him as he stumbled forward, the momentum carrying him to his knees.  There was shouting and a thump behind him; he tried to turn but sharp pain lanced down his spine. An itch started between his shoulder blades, spreading down his right arm and up his neck.  “Don’t touch it.” Sam’s voice came from behind, but all Clint could see was Phil’s blue eyes, wide and staring at him. “Bucky, get my pack. I need …”  The itch became a burn and the burn flushed all the way to the top of Clint’s scalp. A roaring filled his ears.  “Clint, look at me,” Phil’s voice was soft but he heard it clearly.  He tried to speak but the words caught fire in the back of his throat and a darkness encroached. The last thing he saw was a single tear at the corner of Phil’s eye before he blacked out.   He blinked, befuddled and confused, crawling up to consciousness. At first, he couldn’t move, then he became aware of his body, wound up in something heavy, weighted down. He flexed his foot, wiggled his fingers, and tried to push up and out of the bindings but a stabbing ache took his breath away.  “Stop that.” Soft hands soothed over his forehead and he recognized the voice. “You’ll pull your stitches and undo all of Jemma’s hard work.”  “Aunt Winnie?” His eyes focused and he saw her leaning over him. Memory came crashing back as he fully woke up. ”Is Phil alright?”  “Philomena is with the Council, doing a fine job of ignoring their whining and deciding her own future.”She smiled and her laugh lines deepened. “She’s been sitting with you whenever she could.”  “Who’s watching her back? Is Steve …” He started to struggle again, but Winifred tapped his cheek just like she’d done when he was little. A light touch, it calmed him.  “Captain Rogers and his two friends are acting as her bodyguards, and Natasha is her constant shadow. She’s the safest person on the continent right now,” Winifred told him. “You, on the other hand, are trying to get yourself hurt. Mind you, protecting Phil from a would-be assassin is just like you -- you’ve always had such heroic sensibilities -- but you’re damned lucky twice over that you’re not dead. First, that nice young Wilson boy was there and able to slow the spread of the poison until they got you to the castle. A nasty new strain of belladonna and hemlock, or so I understand, virulent and fast acting. Most healers haven’t run across it yet, but Jemma had and knew what to do. That’s your second bit of good luck; she arrived just yesterday, before you pulled your little stunt.”  Despite her words, Clint could see Winifred was upset; her eyes were red rimmed and her usual perfect kohl liner wobbly.  He never meant to cause her to worry, but, somehow, he always did.  “Jemma’s the best.” He tried to push up again; this time Winifred huffed, but helped him ease into a sitting position, plumping and adding pillows behind him.  “Be sure and tell her that. Harald’s been riding her non-stop since she returned about marrying Leo. He and Alstair have decided that will shore up Coulfell’s position in the Empire or some such nonsense. Keep the bloodlines pure, my ass. Promote inbreeding and put all the power in too few hands, that’s what it will do. Jemma and Leo are going to be the head of their guilds, mark my words, and that would give Harald and Alstair a higher standing at court.”  She straightened out the quilts, tucking them in around him. “So many good people are dead, and they’re worrying about the legacy of their lineage.”  “Aunt Winnie, how long have I been out?” Clint caught her hand, stilling the fluttering motions of her fingers. “There was something we needed to ask you …”  “Two days and,  yes, I know what you want.”  Sinking down onto the edge of the bed, Winifred gave a long exhale. “You were so young when you came to me; you were always on the go, into everything.” “I am so proud of the man you’ve become, and I couldn’t love you more if I’d given birth to you myself.”  He stroked a thumb over her knuckles and waited for her to continue.  “I made promises to my dearest friends, promises meant to keep their children safe. I don’t regret it; it was such a tumultuous time, so dangerous to be connected to certain families. I meant to take the knowledge to my grave, and I would have if Orlando and the boys hadn’t died. William would have been a good king, and Phil wouldn’t have had to make an alliance with Wunagan’s line, and no one would have known.” She squeezed Clint’s hand. “All I ask is that, when it all comes out, and it’s going to have to, you try not to think the worst of me. I’ve done what I’ve done for you and Victoria and Philomena.”  Before he could respond, the door opened and Jemma Simmons entered, a petite brunette whirlwind who immediately came around the other side of the bed. She’d grown so much since Clint had last seen her; four years ago, she’d still been a little gangly, all elbows and flyaway hair. Now she was a young woman, rounded hips and a slim waist, high cheekbones and long neck.  “How are you feeling?” she asked as she took a small pouch from the pocket of her bag. “Any pins and needles in your feet or hands? Cold spots or shivers?”  “I’ll leave you to it.” Winifred stood, but Clint caught her hand.  “We’ll finish that conversation later,” he said.  “We will,” she agreed, patting his shoulder before she headed out the door. “Ouch.” Clint jumped when Jemma poked his finger, drawing a bead of blood that she caught in a delicate glass pipette. “I feel fine, Jem. Honestly.”  “Uh Huh.” She added it to a small vial, popped in the stopper, then shook it. “I know you, Clinton Frances. Remember when you had a high fever and couldn’t breath but insisted you could go hunting with Will and Tophe? They dragged you back unconscious.”  “You know, it was sort of nice in the Outer Isles where nobody knew anything about my past.” He took the potion when she handed it to him and drank it down in one swallow. It tasted terrible; all medicine, in his experience, left a bad aftertaste.  “I’m glad you’re back.” Jemma sat down on the edge of the mattress. “We were all worried when you left like that, just up and disappeared. You could have told us you were alive at least.”  “I should have,” Clint agreed. He was beginning to realize just how many people cared about him. It was quite a revelation.  “I was too caught up in my own problems to think about it.”  “Yes, you were.” She was always so reserved but had a wicked sense of humor lurking beneath the proper exterior. “But I’ll forgive you if you tell me it’s true that you and Phil finally figured out your feelings.”  He didn’t hide his smug smile. “I can neither confirm nor deny anything until the Queen makes her position clear.”  “You dog!” Jemma lightly smacked his forearm. “I knew that’s what Trip was hiding; he thinks he’s so smooth but he has tells. His eye twitched when he talked about you jumping in front of the knife; if he hadn’t been so caught up in blaming himself for that young guard getting close enough, I’d have gotten it out of him.”  “It was one of Trip’s men.” He remembered now, the flash of color of the livery as the man threw the knife. “Did they get him? Is he talking?”  “Lady Viperia paid him; his father died and left his family with a mountain of debt. One of her operatives got to him, made him believe Phil was going to replace the guard with Imperial soldiers.” She shook her head. “It’s all a mess, Clint. The people are uneasy, the Council is at each other’s throats, and everyone is imagining plots everywhere.”  “Well, you could settle one thing and tell Trip how you feel; maybe we can make a trend of it, people getting their heads together and going after what they want.”  “Oh, Gods’ blood, don’t let my father hear you say that.” She glanced at the door Winifred had firmly closed. “He’s back on his kick again about me marrying Leo, like that’s going to happen. Leo’s still head over heels for Mack. But since mother died last year, Dad’s gotten deeper into court politics. I can’t believe he’s allied himself with Lord Obediah and Alexander … and that awful Zola fellow; they’re the ones who put forth that terrible plan to establish ‘purity’ of blood lines.”  “I’m sorry about your mother.” Clint had liked Lady Cadelinea; she’d been a good friend to both Winifred and Phil’s mother, and a calming influence on all around her. Jemma got her grace and quiet competence from her. “She caught me stealing cook’s tarts from the windowsill one time and gave me two more before she sent me on my way.”  “Oh, that was just like her.” Jemma smiled. “I didn’t realize how much she smoothed father’s rough edges. I mean he’s always talked about his plans for our lineage, but it’s gotten so much worse.”  She took his wrist in her hand, pressing her fingers to the pulse point and tilting her head down as she counted the beats. Light filtered in through the window, highlighting the line of her nose and curve of her cheek, and Clint saw it, the resemblance to Phil in the planes of Jemma’s face. Her eyes might be green like her mother’s, but the echo of a Coulson was there.  Things clicked into place.  Lord Harald Simmons, long time friend of King Orlando. A distant Coulson relative through his mother’s side, far enough removed to be safe from the spell. A member of the Royal Council who could influence policy and had designs on consolidating power.  Pushing Jemma to pursue her training, to marry Leo so they could both be the head of their fields and their children, Harald’s grandchildren, would rise in power at the court. And the answer to why now could be as simple as the loss of his voice of reason, his beloved wife. He’d always been a conservative voice, a supporter of Bishop Blake, a noble who believed his blood made him privileged and above others.  Clint reached out and covered Jemma’s hand with his. “If losing Will and Troph and Bertie and Dewan taught me anything, it’s that life’s too short to waste on doing what everyone else tells us we should do. You know we’ll all support you if you decide to be with Trip -- me, Phil, Winnie, Tori, Phil, Mel, Leo, Mack …”  “I know. Leo keeps threatening to come to a Council meeting and make a public statement; I told him it would be easier if he just ran off with Mack, but he’s still convinced that Mack doesn’t feel the same way.” She squeezed Clint’s fingers. “But with Phil as an example of bucking tradition, maybe Leo and I can follow suit.”  Before Clint could answer, there was a knock then Phil entered; Natasha followed just a step behind. He could see Sam in the hallway, taking up guard as he shut the door.  Phil was back in one of her gowns, black with gray piping, her hair pulled up with only one curl hanging down. In all the craziness of the last few weeks, he’d forgotten that they were still in the official mourning period.  “About time you woke up.” Phil moved around the bed to stand next to Jemma. “First Steve, now you. Too many people throwing themselves in front of poisoned knives for me; I don’t like it.”  He started to tell her it was better him than her, but his brain kicked into gear in time to realize that wasn’t a good response. “I’m fine,” he went with instead.  “You were damn lucky,” Phil argued. “If Jemma hadn’t been here …”  “He’s going to be alright,” Jemma interjected. “He’s had the last dose of the antidote, and his heart rate is steady. I’m afraid I can’t do anything about him being heroically stupid; that’s a pre-existing condition.”  “I am aware of his flaws,” Phil said. “But what about long term effects? Sam said that the dosage might have implications on …”  Clint watched as Phil leaned towards Jemma, the two women profiles highlighted in relief. Now that he was looking, he could see it, faint enough to be dismissed as a distant relation, but marked all the same. To think they could have been sisters all this time and he’d never noticed.  As he mulled over the possibility, he felt the weight of Natasha’s stare; turning he caught her gaze, raised one eyebrow then cut his eyes back to Phil and Jemma. It didn’t take long before Natasha got that little crinkle in her brow as she intently studied the tableau and an even shorter amount of seconds before she tilted her head and blinked once.  “Interesting,” she murmured.  “Indeed,” Clint agreed.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Father, father, where are you going

O do not walk so fast.

Speak father, speak to your little boy

Or else I shall be lost,

The night was dark no father was there

The child was wet with dew.

The mire was deep, & the child did weep

And away the vapour flew.

William Blake

“Little Boy Lost”

“So what is it? You were staring at me and Jemma.” Phil sat down on the edge of the bed. “What are you thinking?” 
 
Clint glanced at Natasha. 
 
“I know,” Natasha said. “He didn’t tell me; it’s the only explanation that makes sense.” 
 
“Does everyone know?” Phil sighed. 
 
“Tony worked with Bruce and Betty,” Clint told her. “And Steve’s … thorough.”
 
“Right.” Of course they all knew; everyone would soon. There would be no way to keep it from getting out. The goal, she’d decided, was to make sure her blood father didn’t know they were on to him until they were ready. Once they figured out who it was … She stopped as it hit her. “Harald Simmons? You think Jemma and I are …” She thought about it. “Yes, he’s been more vocal about his beliefs since his wife passed, but he was against a marriage to Garrett and concerned about people taking advantage of a child heir.” 
 
“It’s a hunch,” Clint said. “I think it’s worth checking out.” 
 
“Victoria is already tracking down a number of people’s movements in the days before the spell,” Phil told him. “I gave her a short list. Her network includes a lot of servants in noble households.” 
 
“She should look for a large outlay of money,” Natasha said. “The cost would put a dent in their finances; if I was the mage, I’d charge them an astronomical amount because I could.”
 
“The summer house.” Phil’s breath damn near frozen in her throat. “It was in Cadelinea’s family for generations; Harald sold it along with all the land; Jemma was upset because he didn’t tell her until the contract was drawn up.” 
 
“The one on Lake Quomi?” Clint asked. “With the cool crenelated roof and laundry chutes? Winifred always stayed in that garden bedroom with a view of the mountains.” 
 
“Of course you remember the chutes; all you boys loved to slide down them.” Phil smiled at the memory. “Dwan almost broke his neck that one time a laundress took the basket away.” 
 
“Actually, they were great for climbing back up to my bedroom; Will and Tophe always had to sneak up the backstairs and inevitably got caught.”  Clint’s gaze grew serious. “Cadelinea loved that place; she used to tell Winifred she planned to retire there once Jemma married and took over the family title. For Harald to suddenly sell it …” 
 
“Could be grief,” Natasha offered. “It reminds him of her.” 
 
Phil shook her head. “It has a long and storied history; it used to belong to Emperor Argonne and his second wife Ettine who threw lavish parties there during the First Continental War. Harald loved to tell everyone about all the famous generals and heroes who’d stayed there.”
 
“Then we get Tori to check into the sale.” Clint yawned. “Look, it’s just a theory and I …” He yawned again. “Wait a minute, did Jemma give me a sleeping daught?” 
 
“The potion will heal you faster if you rest.” Phil patted his knee. 
 
“But I want to know what happened with the Council and what you told Mel and …” He yawned again. “Winifred knows something, she almost told me … Damn it, Phil, I need to know you’re safe.” 
 
“We have eyes on her at all times,” Natasha promised.  
 
A knock sounded on the door; Natasha put herself in the line of sight and cracked it to see outside before she opened it to let Melinda in; Maria followed closely on her heels with the baby in her arms. 
 
“Sorry to interrupt,” Melinda said. “But we have some developments.” 
 
“Something’s happening.” Clint struggled to get up. “I should …” 
 
“Go to sleep.” Phil leaned over and dropped a kiss onto his forehead. “I’ll handle it.” 
 
“But …” Clint started to protest. 
 
“Here, Barton, hold him for a minute, will you?” Maria interjected. She handed the baby over to Clint and he took the bundled child in his arms, cradling him close to his chest. A small face with a shock of dark hair looked up at him; one hand reached out and grabbed for Clint. Wonder filled his eyes and he smiled at the less-than-two-month-old. 
 
“He’s gorgeous.” Clint gently touched the tip of one finger to the baby’s cheek. “Look at him, Phil. He’s perfect.” 
 
Something warm flooded into Phil’s chest and a sharp desire speared into her. The theory became real in that moment; she might even now be carrying their child, one who would look like a mixture of the two of them and Clint would dote on the babe.  Rock them to sleep, play games with them, sing to them …
 
Clint yawning broke her reverie; Maria scooped up her son and laughed when the baby made noises in complaint. 
 
“Go on,” Maria told Phil. “I’ll stay for a bit, make sure he rests. I know how he gets when he’s injured.” 
 
“Hey!” Clint protested. 
 
“Thank you,” Phil replied. 
 
When she’d watched Clint go down, she’d been terrified; she’d already lost so much and the thought of losing Clint had scared her down to her toes. Those panicked minutes when Sam went to work and the frantic ride to the castle were burned into her mind. Nothing else mattered but Clint’s survival; all the questions, the council members demanding explanations, the logistics of her return took a back seat to waiting and watching as Jemma went to work. Even when Phil knew Clint was out of the woods and going to be okay, she spent as much time as possible in his room, sleeping on the chaise lounge and ensuring he was never left alone. 
 
After that, handling the Council had been top priority; Garrett’s letter and his recusal of himself from the Imperial succession had been enough of a shock to suck up most of the outrage and frustration. Kenison May had been beside himself, sure it was a ploy to turn attention away from Garrett’s backroom dealings; his wife LIan had taken the news as a positive, a way to separate any children from John’s obligations. Alstair Fitz practically gloated about how much closer this put Coulfell in the power rankings of court; his assumption that Phil was already pregnant had grated on her after the first few times he suggested a new title for the child. Louis Mackenzie was the only one who asked how Phil was feeling; with Winifred sitting at Clint’s bedside, he’d been the voice of reason, encouraging her to get off her feet and rest more. 
 
And now that she thought about it, Harald Simmons’ constant push to have Bishop Blake do a lineage spell ‘just to be sure’ had been filled with a very visible amount of glee; even when Jemma explained it was too early for a definitive result, he’d kept asking. Was he thrilled to think his grandchild … and her heart stuttered to even voice that to herself … would be in line for the Emperor’s throne? She needed to move her talk with Winifred up on the schedule to find out just what she knew. 
 
Leaving Clint’s room, she was flanked by Sam in the front, Natasha in the back, and Melinda by her right. Trip joined them at the bottom of the stairs, taking position on the left. No one spoke until they came to Phil’s study, Sam and Trip doing a sweep before they let her enter. Inside, she found Rhodey, Steve, and Bucky waiting on them. 
 
“Alright, what’s happening?” She sat in her favorite chair, the overstuffed one by the fireplace. “And has anyone checked the chimney? I have it on good authority that it’s big enough for a person to climb down.” 
 
Melinda raised an eyebrow as Trip leaned over and looked. 
 
“Huh,” he said as he stood back up. “They’d have to be damn flexible, but, yeah, someone could. How did you …” 
 
“Clint.” Melinda huffed. “That’s how he got in and out without being seen.” 
 
“We’ll add grates at the top and in junctions,” Trip said. “Along with warning wards. I’ll get right on that after we deal with this crisis.”
 
Phil turned an eye towards Melinda and waited. 
 
“We’ve had word that an Imperial battalion is sailing towards Piste and will land in two days,” Melinda said. “Obediah Stane’s planning on meeting them at the harbor and riding in with them.”
 
“That’s earlier than expected, but we knew they were coming,” Phil said.
 
“The Emperor is with them.” Melinda dropped that tidbit and the response was stunned silence. 
 
“How trustworthy is the information?” Phil finally asked. The Emperor hadn’t left Triafyrd in over two years; his advancing age and danger of assassination made traveling difficult.
 
“The Spymaster himself sent word,” Melinda confirmed. “Wunagan plans to stay until the heir is confirmed.” 
 
“Stane will fill his ears with who knows what,” Steve said. “We can’t let him have unfettered access.” 
 
“The Emperor will bring his personal healer with him,” Sam warned. “And Stephen, Lord Strange is one of the few who could divine a pregnancy … and the lineage … this early.” 
 
“We’ll have to vet all the Imperial guards,” Rhodey added. “Any of them could be owned by the Syndicates or families.”
 
Phil took a deep breath and let the information spin out all the permutations. Three days. She’d have to shift priorities, bring more people into her confidence, take some leaps of logic to get ready … and maybe that was a good thing. 
 
“Alright.” She sat up straight and got her thoughts in order. “Trip, get with Rhodey and figure out a process for rooting out any potential problems in the guard. If you have to, go to the Spymaster for help; I’ll offer the trade for any info he has.” 
 
Trip nodded. 
 
“Mel, let’s put Wunagan in the Dowager’s suite; he’ll like the garden and there’s the security of the interior walls. Stephen Strange can have the connected bedroom for ease of access and privacy. Steve, I need you to vet the Emperor’s security and also keep an eye out for hidden assassins in his party. We’ll have the maids do a cleaning of the whole west guest wing; there’s no telling how many are in his entourage.” 
 
“It’s time anyway. Those rooms haven’t been aired out in half a year,” Melinda agreed. 
 
“This gives us three days to get this house in order. First, we need to head Stane off at the pass. We need an inside track on when the Emperor is arriving in Piste; Natasha, do you think Wanda …”
 
“She’ll know before anyone else,” Natasha said. “Pietro has ears on the docks.” 
 
“Ask if she has any more of the ward medallions,” Phil added. “Wunagan will appreciate one.” 
 
“And it will remind him of his promises to the Sokovians,” Natasha agreed. 
 
“How do we head Stane off?” Trip asked. “He’s single-minded once he’s got his eye set on a path.” 
 
“Well, Tony wanted a big dramatic scene.” Phil shared a smile with Steve. “Coming back to life in front of the The Emperor and Obediah ought to satisfy that itch.” 
 
Bucky laughed. “Stark will make a production of the whole thing and monopolize the conversation the whole way here. It’s perfect.” 
 
“Glad you can see that.” Steve slapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Because someone’s going to have to go along to watch Tony’s back and there’s no one I trust more than you.” 
 
Bucky’s humor disappeared. “Damn it.”
 
“We’ll need Daisy.” Phil’s mind jumped to the next item. “She can contact Bruce and Betty and Loki and update the Emperor on how the spell worked.” 
 
“He’ll want to adopt her. He sees himself as a patron of young talent, wanting to mold them to his use. That’s how he found Strange … Oh. Yes, that will work.” Steve grinned. “If Bruce and the others are the ones who figure it out, that will give Wunagan the leverage to make the changes in the Collegium he’s been pushing for.” 
 
Phil tipped her head in acknowledgment. 
 
“And if we can uncover the culprit while he’s here, that’s a double bonus,” Sam said. 
 
“Exactly. We take control of the situation,” Phil promised. “And the first thing is to focus on finding out everything we can about what Harald Simmons was up to in the weeks before the spell was released.”

“Lord Harald?” Trip’s eyes widened. “You think he’s the one?” 
 
“Cadelinea’s death.” Melinda nodded. “He sold the summer house.” 
 
“He’s doubling down on Jemma marrying Leo,” Phil agreed.
 
“But why?” Trip was still flummoxed. “I mean, I know he’s obsessed with Jemma being the best and always jockeying at court, but he was friends with King Orlando. He sponsored Robertine’s application to the artificers.” 
 
“Because he’ll do anything to have his blood on the Imperial throne.” Phil was going to need all her friends to get through this; the time for keeping secrets was coming to an end. “HIs family members in three of five seats of power.”
 
“On the throne …” Trip paused as it sank in. “Wait. You mean …” 
 
”Only way it makes sense,” Steve said with a nod.
 
”Oh.” Rhodey’s eyes widened. “Yeah, that’d do it.” 
 
“If it’s true,” Melinda reminded them. 
 
“I trust Clint’s instincts, but we need proof.” Phil could see the path forward. “I’ll bring Victoria in, make sure she knows what she’s looking for. Maria, Jasper, and Mack need to be read in too. And Winifred knows something.” 
 
“But … how …” Trip was still circling all the implications. “Jemma. And you …” 
 
“Trip, I need you to not say anything to Jemma until I talk to her. If it comes to it, I should be the one to explain.” 
 
“Understood,” Trip nodded. 
 
“Okay, people, we have work to do.” Melinda waved them all out of the room, and Phil was happy to let her put the plans in motion. 
 
Phil waited until everyone but Sam and Natasha left. 
 
“Sam.” She kept her voice low. “How close do you have to be to do a blood lineage spell?”

“… up and out of here by the morning,” Jemma was saying as she walked around the bed. “I want one more night of rest, Clint, to make sure the wound won’t reopen easily. Knowing you, you’ll decide to go repelling from the roof while shooting your bow just because you can.”
 
”It’s not my fault if someone decides to attack me!” Clint protested. “Bad guys don’t wait until you’re all healed up to come at you.” 
 
“Well, I’ve only known you for a short time, but you do seem to get in a lot of trouble,” Daisy added, ever so helpfully. 
 
Phil watched the byplay from where she was seated on the side of the bed; Daisy had taken over from Maria when the baby needed a nap, tucking herself in the comfy chair by the fireplace and reading while Clint had slept the afternoon away. Caught up in sidetracking the Council members so they didn’t get wind of Melinda’s cleaning spree or Victoria’s comings and goings in the servant passages, Phil hadn’t been back to Clint’s room until it was time for Jemma to do her check up.
 
”Hey, no ganging up on me.” Clint was grinning, clearly feeling much better. “Nat, help me out here. Someone needs to take my side.” 
 
“Do you want me to tell the story about Farleigh’s Cay and that stunt you pulled with ….” 
 
“No need to drag that old tale out.” Clint waved the red head off. “And I would have been fine if Mendez hadn’t swerved right instead of left.” 
 
Natasha raised an eyebrow, which said exactly what she thought about Clint’s excuse. 
 
“There was this one time when Clint broke his leg by jumping off the eastern tower to escape my father’s wrath; Clint had stolen the cook's puffed berry tart. He was supposed to stay off of it for at least six weeks, but he got into a horse race with Bertie and Dawn and it had to be reset when Old Crackle dumped him over the crabapple hedge.” 
 
As Jemma talked, Sam moved around the room. As much as she hated the subterfuge, Phil needed concrete evidence the simple spell could give her. She didn’t see the need of disrupting Jemma’s life if Clint’s hunch was wrong; better to wait to tell her if the outcome was positive. 
 
How she felt about the possibility was a different story. Finding out an old friend was her sister? Phil couldn’t decide if she was angry about all the lost years, terrified of losing another person, or happy to not be alone anymore. She was still aching and raw from the loss of her family and no one could replace her brothers, but maybe … she didn’t let herself follow that thought to its conclusion. What happened, happened, and she had too many crises to deal with at the moment. 
 
Sam had the small vial in his palm as he passed Jemma, touching her lightly on the shoulder. 
 
“What was that?” Jemma turned, bumping into Sam. “Are you reading me?”
 
“I asked him to,” Phil said. “I’m sorry, Jem, but I needed to know.” 
 
“Needed to …” Jemma’s eyes widened as Sam opened the hand closest to her; the liquid in the glass was a bright red. It took only moments for understanding to register in Jemma’s eyes “That’s  … oh. Oh. We’re … Your mother’s miscarriages; they were too close in blood. Did Orlando …” 
 
“He knew,” Phil assured her.
 
Sam stepped back and the color faded to an off white. 
 
“Blood and garters, that’s why Father’s been so adamant about me and Leo.” She shook her head. “I know he’s opportunistic, but taking advantage of your family’s death to force me to … oh. That’s why you survived”
 
“The spell worked by contact to skin,” Daisy said, standing up and putting the book she was holding on the nightstand. 
 
“So the attempts on your life?” Jemma looked pensive as she started towards Phil. “But I still don’t understand the original motive …” 
 
Sam moved out of Jemma’s way; his hand bumped into Daisy’s shoulder and Daisy gasped.
 
The liquid glowed red again, as bright as when he’d touched Jemma. 
 
“Hold on. Let me …” Sam pulled away, shook the vial and let it settle back to its inert form. Then he tapped it against Jemma’s arm; it swirled back into the positive reaction. “Okay, now …” He did the same, resetting it then touching Daisy; the color shifted once again. “Well, damn.”
 
“Wait. I’m your … you’re my …” Daisy was clearly flabbergasted, unable to form a complete sentence. 
 
“Sisters.” The word seemed foreign in Phil’s mouth. “Harald Simmons is our father and he’s also the man behind the death of my family. I’m sorry, Jem, but it’s the most likely explanation for all this. 
 
Jemma’s eyes were wide, the implications fully hitting her. “I know he has his damn dynastic ambitions, but he was friends with Orlando and we all grew up together.  To use a spell like that …”
 
“You said it yourself,” Clint gently reminded her.  “He’s creating a dynasty.  You at the head of the healer’s collegium, Leo running the artificers -- just imagine how powerful your children would be.  Through Phil, he gets a grandchild on the Imperial throne, and Daisy is the brightest mage of your generation.” 
 
“There may be another in the Clergy,” Natasha added. “All the major institutions and seats of power under the control of one bloodline, that’s what he wants.” 
 
“So, this guy went around having kids to engineer this outcome?” Daisy asked. “I always wondered who’d choose to have a child with my mother; she’s unstable and dangerous. Gods, he probably picked her because of that, in the hopes I’d inherit her magic with some level of control.” 
 
“My mother was the top of her class at the Collegium; she always told the story of how she was old and on the shelf until Harald came along and romanced her.” Jemma’s hands were shaking; Phil reached out and took them in her own, drawing Jemma to sit next to her. “I wonder if he even cared about her, if it was all a lie.” 
 
“While she was alive, he kept my mother’s secret; it was only after her death that he moved to put his plan in action,” Phil offered.
 
“He gets so very maudlin sometimes when he’s in his cups,” Jemma told her. “About not having more children; I thought that was because of mother’s miscarriages. She always seemed so distraught that she never gave him a son. I just … I don’t …” 
 
She began to cry, fat tears rolling from the corner of her eyes. Phil wrapped her in her arms, feeling her shoulders shake as she sobbed. 
 
“Um, I’m going to …” Sam pointed to the door. Leaving the vial on the table, he slipped outside, Natasha on his heels. 
 
“I should probably …” Daisy began. 
 
“Come here.” 
 
Phil held out a hand and motioned the young woman over. Hesitantly, Daisy joined them, sitting on the other side of Jemma, bracketing the crying girl between them. It didn’t take long until she was part of the hug, her face buried in Jemma’s shoulder. A warmth settled along Phil’s back, Clint holding her, his strong arms an anchor around her waist, keeping her steady until Jemma cried herself out. 
  
“I suppose you want me to start from the beginning.” 
 
Winifred sat with her back straight and spine aligned, her gaze soft as she surveyed Clint sitting up in the bed, Phil by his side. She’d arranged the time for this meeting and had used her concern for Clint as a way to dislodge Phil from yet another Council free-for-all discussion. 
 
“I’d like to know what mother and father were thinking,” Phil answered. “What the plan was.” 
 
“Your mother.” Winifred gave a small, sad smile. “She wanted so much to give your father an heir. You know, of course, that theirs was a match of political convenience; Mariana always knew she would marry as best suited her family’s interests; she saw it as part of the contract, to fulfill the role of Queen and provide Coulsons to follow in your father’s footsteps. Love was a sacrifice she was willing to give up. Thank the gods that they came to like and respect each other” 
 
Phil felt a twinge in her chest at how close she’d come to doing the same thing. Thank the gods Tony had talked some sense into her. 
 
“Now you two are a love match,” Winifred said. “And it’s about time you realized that.”
 
“Aunt Winnie, we’re not …” Clint started to protest. 
 
“Yes, yes, there’s the politics to consider, but I know you, Clinton Francis. You are so happy, the both of you, and it thrills my heart to see it,” Winifred said. “I can’t wait to bounce your babies on my knee and completely spoil them before I send them home.”
 
“We’re not telling anyone yet,” Phil finished. “Not until the whole thing with Garrett is settled.” 
 
“Of course.” Winifred nodded. “I see her in you, you know. Your mother. She was much stronger than people knew, had a spine of metal when it came to what she wanted. And she wanted you so much she was willing to do just about anything.” 
 
“It was her idea?” Phil asked.
 
“That I don’t know; by the time she brought me into the little conspiracy, she was already four months gone and about to announce it to the court. All she told me was that she and Orlando were a united front, that they were in this together, and she needed me to make the birthing arrangements. Between Tempia, Agatha, and I, we kept everyone out of the room; your father enlisted Cedric to validate the lineage and it was done.” Winifred’s eyes lost focus as she seemed drawn back in memory. “Honestly, I think Mariana wanted someone else to know, to share the burden; she rarely talked about it afterwards, always referred to you as a Coulson. In her mind, you were. The only time she broached the subject was when she was in those last few months before your birth; she worried that it would all come to naught, that the problems lay with her and not the closeness of hers and Orlando’s blood.” 
 
“Did she tell you who he was?” Even though she already knew the answer, Phil asked. 
 
“No. She never spoke a name.She only mentioned he had blue eyes and was a very distant blood relation through his mother’s side, but that could be so many that it was useless to speculate. When you came out with those eyes and the Coulson nose, she was so relieved.” Winifred paused. “Once, when you were three, I overheard Orlando assure her he was keeping an eye on things; from what he intimated, your blood father was someone he saw fairly frequently and he could ensure he kept quiet.” 
 
“All this time, you’ve known,” Phil said. “Even after I agreed to the Emperor’s plan.”
 
She flinched, the tiniest of twitches. “When your brothers came along, it seemed a moot point. Orlando made sure your position in the family was safe by registering you in the official Imperial lineage rolls. Sometimes I even forgot you weren’t his daughter, with your regal bearing and your grandmother’s lessons in fierceness. What difference did it make? Orlando would have made the  marriage into the Ward family regardless because we needed peace between the countries; he regretted forcing you into that terrible Grant’s bed because you were his daughter in every way that counted. Then that horrible spell took them all and there you were, standing in front of the Bishop with Garrett, looking so much like Mariana that my heart ached. And, again, it didn’t matter; you were the official heir and queen, signed and sealed by Orlando and Cedric, and your child will be the heir to the throne of Coulfell and the Empire.” 
 
“Are you sure you don’t know who he was? Anyone you suspect?” Clint pressed. 
 
“No. I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to look too closely. At first, I was just so happy Mariana had a healthy baby and then … well, when she died, it wasn’t important any more. Whoever it was kept their distance and Phil was loved and that seemed to be enough.” She sighed. “But it wasn’t, was it? I’ve thought long and hard about it since the night of the spell; it’s the only answer I can come to, that someone knew Philomena would survive, become queen, and most likely have to make a deal with the Emperor. Maybe if I had tried to discover the identity earlier, I could have …” 
 
“He fooled us all,” Phil assured her. “If you went searching, it would only put you in danger.” 
 
“You know, don’t you? That’s what you’ve got Victoria doing, gathering evidence. She was in-and-out all day, talking to bankers, visiting …” She went rigid, hands making fists in her lap. “Oh. Of course. He was a charming devil back then; his desire to gain power was cloaked in a young man’s boasting, slick smile, and future promises. Your father never saw the dark underside of the obsession; Harald hid that well from the other nobles, but the servants know. They always do. Poor sweet Jemma; at least she’ll have you in her corner when it’s all revealed.”
 
”I’ll make sure she’s taken care of,” Phil promised.
 
”I never understood what women saw in him. Maybe because my Karlt was such a quiet man, I was always suspicious of Harald’s smooth way. Did you know he chased after Ramona of Wakanda before Cadelinea? She wouldn’t even look his way, of course, too busy studying to be priestess of Bast. Harald was upset when she married T’Chakka.”
 
Phil exchanged a glance with Clint; Queen Ramona’s clerical magic was well-known. 
 
“He practically stalked Andrea even after she was betrothed to Tomas Hill. She went to live with her relatives in Westchester to get away from his attention,” Winifred continued. “And then there was that one woman from the Eastern Shores; she had a temper and got violent when crossed. No one knows where she disappeared to, she just up and left one day.” 
 
Maria’s mother was a seer, a trait passed down from her maternal line. And the woman from the Eastern Shores had to be Daisy’s mother, the dangerous leader of Afterlife. Harald had certainly been a busy man, trying to sew his blood into the line of power. 
 
“But the worst was Greta. She was terrified of him; Alastair used to laugh and tell her she was too sensitive, that Harald’s aggressive behavior was just jokes. Such a dear woman and she ended up practically locked in her room because of Harald and Alastair’s friendship.” 
 
“God’s blood.” Clint cursed under his breath. “Leo?”
 
“No,” Winifred shook her head. “I know Leo is Alastair’s son; he had the ArchBishop verify the lineage in the Imperial Capital because it placated his vanity. He might have paid off the Bishop here, but not in Triafyrd.”
 
Phil breathed a sigh of relief. 
 
“But he will not go easily, I can tell you that.” Winifred stood and crossed over to the bed, sitting down close enough to take Phil’s hands. “Once he’s cornered, he’ll fight. I don’t think anyone’s seen his true measure, but using that spell tells a lot about the darkness of his soul. You’ll need people you can trust behind you and I hope you know you can count me as one of those. I made a promise to both of your mothers that I would watch out for you and keep you safe. I don’t intend to stop now when the moment has come to face the enemy.” 
 
“Thank you,” Phil said sincerely. “It’s good to have your support.” 
 
“Of course, my dear,” Winifred said. “You’re family.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I made my song a coat

Covered with embroideries

Out of old mythologies

From heel to throat;

But the fools caught it,

Wore it in the world’s eyes

As though they’d wrought it.

Song, let them take it

For there’s more enterprise

In walking naked

“A Coat”

William Butler Yeats

The grand hall was one of Clint’s favorite spaces in Coulfell castle. Soaring buttresses arched high above the inlaid polished stone floor, light and bright in the rows of colored stained glass windows that caught the afternoon sun. The fireplace held two grates, the mantle a span of intricately carved mahogany wood. Paintings mixed with tapestries on the walls, mounted between sconces, scenes of daily life and famous Coulsons from the past. The room was a gathering place and held so many memories. Decked out for the winter festival -- fragrant pine boughs and white pillar candles -- and summer solstice -- green wreaths of grain and colorful flowers, Clint had attended many balls with musicians on the far dais and the floor filled with dancers, and state dinners with long tables ladened with food and free flowing drinks. It was where Orlando and William and Christophe and Robertine and Edwan had laid in state, mourners filing past their bodies. 
 
Today, he stood just behind Phil to her left, Natasha his mirror on the right, waiting for the Emperor to walk through the doors. Phil had gone for simplicity, not pomp, despite the pressure of most of the Council members; as soon as the news arrived that the Emperor was on his way, the arguing had begun. Half of them were angry they’d been kept in the dark while the others wanted to throw a formal ceremony, spend the better part of the evening with speeches and welcomes. But Phil had put her foot down; this was a surprise visit, she insisted, and she was damn well going to let the Emperor have his quiet entrance. She’d been doing that a lot in the last three days, reminding them that she was Queen and in charge; there had been more than a few disagreements, some that got quite loud in volume, and she’d exerted her will. If the Council had thought she was going to be easy to manipulate, they had certainly learned differently. 
 
It hadn’t helped that there was so much to do in such a short amount of time. Everyone was running ragged with little sleep and even less patience for political maneuvering and posturing. The tension got to everyone; Tony and Steve had a yelling match about Bucky being Tony’s bodyguard, Jemma had been short when Sam asked a question about Clint’s healing, and Melinda brooked no slacking from any of the maids or castle staff. Phil ran from one meeting to the next, always busy, constantly aware of what she could and couldn’t say at any given time. It was a drain on her, keeping the Council distracted, looking one way instead of the other, ensuring no one noticed Victoria’s investigation, dealing with Jemma and Daisy’s emotional upheaval, and, worst of all, maintaining the same attitude towards Harald Simmons so he didn’t realize they were onto him. Clint could glare all he wanted since his resting bitch face was well known, but Phil had to smile and pretend to listen to the man’s so-called advice. 
 
After one particularly frustrating bout of Harald insisting that she needed to know if she was with child for the good of the country mixed with his endless gloating about upward mobility, she’d left and dragged Clint into a nearby room where she’d proceeded to put him on his knees and spread her legs so he could bury his head in her folds and bring her to completion twice. Then she rode his cock and made him come so hard he saw stars. Another night, after a long dinner listening to Alastiar and Harald go on about the changing makeup of the Imperial court and their family’s place in it, she’d crawled into bed with Clint, and he’d taken her apart with his hands and mouth and tongue, kissing every inch of her and easing inside, rocking gently as she held on tightly.  After, she cried quietly into his shoulder, their bodies entwined, Clint’s fingers tracing patterns along her spine. And today, once the word had come that the Emperor had landed, when everything was set in motion and there was nothing to do but wait, they’d made love on the big desk in her office, Phil laid out like a buffet of beautiful blushing skin, his hands on her hips, his mouth on her nipple, her legs wrapped around his waist. 
 
In the middle of all the uncertainty and turmoil, they’d found their way to each other and it was good. Very good. The best thing he’d ever had in his life. 
 
Now everything hinged on the next few candle marks and the Emperor. How he would react was a question mark; Wunagan could be set in his ways, a creature of his years on the throne and advancing age. He also considered himself an innovator, a mentor to the young; he wanted to leave a legacy for future generations. Figuring out what that meant was a cottage industry; foretelling Wunagan’s moods and whims kept many scholars and advisors busy. But the danger remained; the Emperor was a powerful man and a wrong guess of how he’d respond had left many broken, penniless, or worse.
 
They were playing a delicate game of balance. Give Harald too much rope and he might talk his way out of it. Make Wunagan look like a fool for not seeing and they’d hand the Empire to Stane and his ilk. Thank the gods that Phil was a master at walking that line between too much and not enough. The Emperor wouldn’t know what hit him. 
 
“Your Majesty.”  Melinda came through the stone archway.“We have guests.” 
 
They were as ready as they could be; Phil had placed them all strategically, from Rhodey at the door to Steve and Trip on guard a few steps ahead of her. Daisy and Jemma were seemingly talking to Sam and Mack, close enough to be within easy calling distance. Maria and Jasper were further away, in the back corner, with Victoria who was bouncing the baby in her arms. To someone like Obediah Stane or Harald Simmons, the scene would be read as a young queen caught out by the Emperor, surrounding herself with her friends for comfort. 
 
How Wunagan would see it, well that remained to be seen. The man was much cleverer than that; he’d survived so many court machinations that he might understand the implications of the missing council members. Truth was, Clint only knew the Emperor by reputation and stories; he’d never met him face-to-face. Because of his position, he didn’t warrant a formal introduction, and even when he attended parties or soirees in Triafyrd, Clint liked to avoid attention, just a hanger-on not worth noticing. 
 
A line of Imperial guards were stopped by Rhodey. Only after they were checked over did Rhodey nod and give way for the Emperor to enter.  
 
The first thing that hit Clint was how old Wunagan was. Beneath his elegant gray robes with intricate needlework of gold and purple patterns, his skin was pale and cracked like old parchment, luminous in places where it wrinkled and folded on itself. Under his velvet skull cap, his hair was white, tied back with a thin sliver of leather and wire. Almost insubstantial, the man was a skeleton with his humanity stretched almost too thin. 
 
“... forced air through the whole building. Imagine the possibilities! The pressure can be contained and used to drive all sorts of engines …”  Tony’s voice bounced off the walls; he came in, chattering on about Riri and Luke’s boiler, hands waving in punctuation to his words. He was two steps ahead of a sour-faced Obediah Stane who was clearly unhappy with the whole situation. Bucky shadowed Tony in all black, his face set in a dark scowl. 
 
“His Imperial Magnificence, Emperor Wunagan Callum nee Cooper of the line of Bernard,” Melinda announced. 
 
“Your Majesty.” Phil dropped into a curtsey. Clint’s bow was deeper, as befitted his station. 
 
“My dear Philomena.” The Emperor’s voice rattled in his throat, but carried hints of the power it had once held. “I am so sorry about your father and brothers. Orlando was a good man and William would have made an excellent king. We sat mourning for them at court, and we will find who did this. Their deaths will not go unpunished, I assure you.” 
 
Once Phil stood back up, everyone else could do the same. 
 
“Thank you,” she answered. The Emperor offered a hand and Phil took hold of the spidery fingers.
 
“And now my nephew has gone and fucked things up again.” Wunagan sighed. “I keep hoping he will finally pull his head out of his ass but I see he’s scarpered off and left you high and dry with his problems.” 
 
“John has been fair in the handfasting,” Phil told him. “For what it’s worth, he believes he’s doing something good.” 
 
“Yes, Anthony explained John’s latest stunt. Another thing for me to deal with, our newly risen from a watery grave Lord of Starkridge. At least he’s vaguely entertaining and knows how to hold his liquor. John has probably crawled into a bottle and gambled away all the money I gave him.” Wunagan shook his head and Clint could swear he heard bones creak. “But never mind those misbehaving boys; I’m here to check on you, my dear, and to see what we can salvage from this situation.”
 
“I am honored by your visit, and I’m sure we can come to some agreement that’s good for Coulfell,” Phil said. “You are welcome in my home.” 
 
“Notice she didn’t say how surprised she was to see me?” Wunagan looked over his shoulder at Stane. “At least she knows not to dissemble and pretend she doesn’t have sources that tell her what’s happening in her own country.” 
 
Stane opened his mouth, his brow furrowing, but snapped it shut as the Emperor raised one eyebrow in a silent challenge. Clint smothered a laugh at the way Stane was shut down. Unfortunately, the sound drew Wunagan’s attention his way; watery blue-gray eyes narrowed in on him.
 
“You must be Winifred’s boy.” He tilted his head and Clint had the strangest sense of being stripped to his core by the intensity of the gaze. “Third cousin, twice removed’s kid, was it?” 
 
“Second, three times removed, Your Majesty,” Clint replied.
 
Wunagan kept staring; an itch grew between Clint’s shoulder blades until the Emperor finally looked away, turning his eyes to Natasha. 
 
“Impressive, Philomena” Wunagan patted Phil’s hand as he let go. “A Widow is an excellent choice. The Syndicates are quite afraid of them, and they keep their word once they sign a contract. And you’ve managed to earn the respect of the good Captain; I hear he wants to stay here.”
 
”Captain Rogers saved my life,” Phil said. “And I’d be happy to have him; he is very … thorough.” 
 
“That’s one way to describe him.” Wunagan smiled towards Steve, but then his face grew serious. “I’ve directed a review of the whole guard; that it was one of mine …” He paused. “It won’t happen again.”
 
Clint didn’t miss the flash of anger in the Emperor’s eyes. 
 
“But that is for later,” he continued. “There is much to do; I would pay my respects to your family and then we shall talk.” 
 
“I’ve ordered the Garden Room prepared for you,” Phil told him. “If you’d like to refresh yourself from your journey before you visit the tombs.” 
 
“Indeed.” Wunagan held out his elbow; she slipped her hand through it and led him towards the back of the hall. “Come along, Captain Rogers, and bring the Widow with you; I prefer her in front of us — no offense, my dear.”
 
”None taken,” Natasha replied as she followed Steve. 
 
“Stephen, if you will,” the Emperor looked over his shoulder to where the rest of his retinue waited. 
 
“Of course, your Majesty.” A young dark haired man separated from the others, his red cloak swirling as he moved. 
 
“Excellent!” Obadiah said, starting forward. “I could use a good stiff drink …”
 
“No.” The Emperor’s voice grew hard. “Rhodes, take Obediah to his rooms and keep an eye on him; that glowering young man that I’m supposed to not recognize as Rogers’ supposedly dead best friend can do the same for Stark. I’ll deal with them later.”

“But …” Stane started to object. 
 
“Oh, stow it, Obie. You overplayed your hand and you know it,” Tony said. 
 
“And you, second cousin third removed.” The Emperor paused and gave Clint another one of his disturbing stares. “What’s your name, boy?” 
 
“Clinton, Clint Barton,” he answered. 
 
“Ah. I had a great-uncle named Clinton, on my mother’s side. He was a performer in a traveling show. Taught me how to ride and throw knives. Told the best bawdy stories and had the most interesting friends.” Wunagan turned and they started moving again. “Come along then, Clinton, Clint Barton. Someone needs to watch our backs.” 
 
The group made their way through the castle, Trip and Melinda joining Clint in the rear. The Emperor kept up a seemingly random flow of conversation, jumping from topic to topic; he talked about the last time he’d been at Coulfell, told a story about an acrobatic act that had just performed at his castle, asked after Melinda’s mother, and needled Steve about switching allegiances. While his steps were slow and he used Phil to help keep his balance, Wunagan’s wits were clearly sharp and insightful. Nothing escaped him; he brought up Tony’s miraculous rise from the grave, Jemma’s refusal to marry Leo, and Sam being present. By the time they arrived at the door to the Dowager’s suite, Clint was convinced the man had to be a seer or a mage because he seemed to know everything. 
 
“Does your cook still make those wonderful cakes?” Wunagan asked as he waited for Steve and Natasha to check the rooms. “Little thin layers with apple compote between?” 
 
“Fresh this morning,” Phil replied. “I’ll have a platter sent round with tea and whiskey.” 
 
“Your HIghness, you should watch your …” Stephen started to say. 
 
“Excellent!” The Emperor spoke over his healer. “I’ll just have a nip and then rest for a bit. Let’s have an intimate supper, shall we?  I’ll send Melinda a list of who to invite. We’ll keep this simple; no big state affairs or banquets. Those wear me out all with the bowing and scraping and pretending everyone’s not after something from me.” 
 
“Of course. We’ll use the Solarium; there’s a wonderful view of the sunset over the mountains from there,” Phil readily agreed.
 
“All clear,” Steve said as he came back out. “We have guards on the outer wall and the sightline from the nearest tower, so the garden is safe as well.” 
 
“Then I’ll take my cake outside; Stephen says fresh air is good for me.” Wunagan winked at Phil. “Send one of those young minds you have around here when it’s time; all the smart ones have left the Collegium and fled the court. Not that I blame them, mind you, but I do miss their energy.” 
 
Once the Emperor shut the door behind him and Stephen Strange, Clint’s shoulders slumped and he felt a wave of relief. 
 
“I’m exhausted,” Clint muttered. 
 
“And we’re just getting started,” Phil told him. 
  
“I thought we were keeping this simple?” Clint tugged at the collar of his jacket, the embroidered silver thread scratchy against his throat. “Court formal? Really?”
 
“There’s simple, then there’s Imperial basic.” Phil pulled a scarf across the back of a chair and looped it around his neck, sliding it under the collar. “At least seven courses, each paired with the perfect wine.” 
 
“Ah, man, do we have to do all the speeches and toasts? It’s so boring.” Clint grimaced. “I was always so glad I was relegated to the second room when we went to Triafyrd.” 
 
Phil’s fingers brushed his jaw as she tied the scarf then tucked it through the top buttonhole of his jacket. “There, now you look fashionable and won’t fidget all night.” 
 
“Watching you in that dress all evening will make it hard to sit still.” 
 
Clint caught her hand and dropped a kiss on her palm. She might be wearing all black, but the bodice was tight at the waist then skimming over her hips, soft fall of crepe to the floor. The low scoop of the neckline showed off the rise of her breasts and the curl of hair that lay on the creamy skin, just begging for his fingers to touch. 
 
“Well, you’ll be at the main table so you’ll need to be on your best behavior,” Phil warned but her eyes were filled with humor. 
 
“I promise I won’t tell how Tophe and I put extra spice in the soup that one time.”  He tugged her close and gave her a quick kiss. “Or that I crawled down the Emperor’s chimney and stole some of that special licorice he always has.” 
 
“Pretty sure he knows about the soup,” she admitted. “But definitely don’t say anything about slipping past his security; he’s paranoid enough as it is.” 
 
“That would explain the way he was looking at me. It seems like he’s already on top of things. He put Stane in his place and knew both Bucky and Sam,” Clint said. 
 
“Wunagan has always had his sources; no one knows how he does it, but my guess would be your friend Nick feeds him lots of information.” Phil paused. “Do you think Fury makes the Emperor trade for it?”
 
“That’s actually a scary thought; Nick’s already got his fingers in so many pies.” 
 
 The knock on the door made them step apart; Melinda came in with Trip right behind her. Natasha, who had been guarding the entrance, surveyed Clint from head to toe before she nodded. 
 
“You clean up well, Barton.” Natasha was wearing another black and green gown, one that Clint knew she’d ordered from the best modeste before they’d headed to Coulfell. It wouldn’t be out of place in the Imperial Court, but also managed to be easy-to-wear and fight in, if need be. 
 
“It’s a good choice,” Melinda said. “Stane’s in full regalia, complete with his badge of office to make a statement; he’ll be completely out-of-place, too formal. Tony’s gone more casual and I talked my parents into something simpler. Winifred and Victoria got the message to dress down which is a good thing; the Emperor has decided that Winifred should sit at his left. Harald and Alstair are livid that she gets a place of honor.” 
 
Natasha shot a look at Clint.
 
”Winifred was a good friend of his daughter; he always checks in on her,” Clint explained.
 
“Ah.” Nat understood immediately. 
 
“She can handle the Emperor,” Phil promised. “Winifred’s been doing it for years.”
  
Dinner was, as to be expected, a lot of posturing and pontificating by the usual suspects. The first three courses passed with small talk; even Tony kept the conversation light and easy. Clint found himself a little further down the table from Phil, wedged in between Mack and Stephen Strange. Across from him, Jemma and Victoria were on either side of Obadiah Stane who wouldn’t stop staring at Tony. 
 
“So I hear you were recently in the Outer Isles.” Stephen pushed back his soup bowl as the fish course was delivered. “Have you been to Kamar Taj?” 
 
“Spent a few weeks in the port; never got up in the mountains, but I hear it’s beautiful,” Clint replied.
 
”It is.” Stephen lips curled up, his mustache and goatee framing the smile. “I studied there; I miss it, the food and the people. After the cold climate of the Collegium, it was a lovely change of pace.”
 
“Doesn’t Kamar Taj train mystics and mages?” Jemma asked. “The Sorcerer Supreme gave a lecture on using astral projection to treat post war trauma; it was a fascinating application across disciplines.” 
 
“We treat the whole person, mind, body, and soul,” Stephen said. “It’s fallen out of favor in the last few centuries, but it used to be the norm to study both healing and magic.”
 
“The Edict of Na’sul found it to be a violation of Church teachings; it dilutes the focus on Divine gifts.” Stane literally wrinkled his nose as he spoke, his distaste of Stephen’s abilities evident. “The ArchBishop has made his position on the topic clear.” 
 
“Indeed he has,” Stephen answered calmly. “Fortunately, the Emperor believes differently.” 
 
“Poor Obie.” Tony spoke from his spot two down from Stephen. “Caught between his fundamental bigotry and innate impulse to kiss ass.” 
 
Stane ground his teeth, his face setting into stern lines. “Of course you want to throw out thousands of years of history and belief, Tony. The Church is the basis of our culture and our laws; you can’t just dismiss it because you want to. Some of us try to live by a moral code.” 
 
“Moral code?” Tony asked, his voice gaining a hard edge. Other conversations fell away as Tony leaned forward. “I seem to remember Father Morales preaching that taking a life is a sin; if you care so much about the commandments of the gods, how do you justify the blood on your hands?” 
 
“Choices have to be made to protect the kingdom,” Obediah answered. “You know that.” 
 
“Oh, so sending the Ten Rings to assassinate me was to protect the kingdom?” Tony pounced. “I was that much of a threat to your business selling weapons to our enemies that I had to die?” 
 
“For once and all, I had nothing to do with the attack.” Stane sat back, seemingly assured of his winning this argument. “I understand it was a harrowing time for you, but this isn’t helping you get better. I’ve spoken to the Bishop and there are treatments to aid in dealing with the stress.”
 
“Ah, yes, send me away to one of those Church sanctioned healing retreats. That’s how you plan to get rid of me.” Tony raised his glass and took a sip. “You know, the assassination attempt I can understand. You’ve always said you were the power behind the throne, and it’s not a leap to think you’d try and take it from your Godson; after all, you deserve it, right?”
 
“I would never …” Obie began. 
 
“But what took me a long time to wrap my brain around was the fact you were willing to send so many innocent souls to the bottom of the sea to get to me.” Tony’s eyes hardened. “One hundred and twenty-one people, Obie. There were families on that ship, people who had worked for my family for years. Kids. Babies. And you handed them over to a group known to leave no survivors.”
 
“Tony,” Obie practically growled. “You’re delusional.” 
 
“Did you get the idea from your lover?” Tony kept talking. “Nnedi had already sent Edgwythe and her kid down with the ship. Worked once, why not try it again?”
 
“Tony.” This time it was Rhodes who spoke up from his place near Lian May. “Maybe this isn’t the time or place …” 
 
“How many more have died because of the money you gave to Von Strucker and are sending Zola? The weapons you sell under the table to the Syballines? The support you give Alexander Pierce so he can forment his fascist revolution?” Tony didn’t stop, the accusations falling from his lips. “You know the mercenary guild is going to find out that you used a proxy to hire them to take another shot at me and make Phil think she needed your protection. Should have gone with someone other than the son of your estate manager to arrange the deal.” 
 
“Enough!” Stane words echoed in the hall as he slammed his hands on the table. 
 
“For once we agree,” was Tony’s calm reply. “I have more than enough evidence to convict you in court and I plan to do just that. Witness statements, your comings and goings, account ledgers, even letters written in your own hand. You’re done, Obediah Stane. No more plotting to rid the world of undesirables and purify the blood lines. I’ve had all the documentation delivered to the Emperor’s room and you’ll be spending the rest of your life in a dark, damp cell.” 
 
“You little bastard! You’re not even Howard’s blood! How dare you think you can get rid of me, you jumped up little shit!” 
 
Stane stood and lunged across the table, knocking over his wine glass and almost upsetting a candelabra. Before he could get a hand on Tony, Steve was there, grabbing him and yanking him back, slamming him down on the floor and putting a knee in his back. 
 
“Thank you, Captain Rogers,” Wunagan’s voice cut through the babble of reactions. “If you’d escort Obediah to a secure room and post a guard, I’ll take up these accusations tomorrow.” 
 
“It’s all lies,” Stane insisted. “He’s not the true heir!” 
 
“Yeah, yeah, Gods’ blood, Obie, everyone knows that old rumor.” Tony waved a hand in dismissal. “You seriously believe Howard would have kept me around if I wasn’t his kid? That he didn’t have multiple lineage spells done? It’s like you didn’t even know him.”

“You’ll regret this,” Stane warned as he was hauled up off the floor, his arms behind his back. “Throwing away your blood line for your perversions.” 
 
“Can’t think of a better reason.” Tony winked at Steve. “Love beats money and power any day.” 
 
“Well,” Wunagan said as Steve walked Stane out of the room. “That was quite some entertainment, Philomena. I hope there’s more to look forward to along with this excellent food.”
 
”We strive to please, Your Majesty,” Phil replied. “And the meat course is Elysian Fields lamb with May Parker’s famous spice blend.” 
 
From his seat, Clint had a perfect view of Harald Simmons’ reaction to the proceedings. The tension that had settled in Harald’s shoulders as Tony began his list of grievances. The slight widening of eyes as Tony revealed the evidence he had of Stane’s double dealings. The way Harald had relaxed when Stane was marched out and nothing else was said. 
 
Little did Simmons know, bringing Obadiah down was just the opening act.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

“The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock” by T. W. Eliot

“You had two glasses of wine with dinner,” Stephen told the Emperor. “And flan for dessert, after the afternoon’s pie.”  Wunagan kept pouring whiskey in his glass. “It’s only sociable; my host offered me a 20-year-old scotch and it would be ungrateful to turn it down.”  “Only one and I’ll make a tincture for you to take before bed.” Stephen sighed.  “Don’t eat this, don’t drink that. Growing old isn’t for the faint of heart.” Wunagan eased down into one of the chairs in the small salon. “Sit, please, we have much to discuss.”  Phil took a chair by the fire and watched the others settle into their chosen places. Natasha stood behind her, between the window and Phil’s back, facing the others in the room. Trip guarded one door, Steve at the other. Wunagan’s request that Clint and Winifred join them had surprised Phil; the man was clearly up to something and the only way to deal with it was to let him say what he wanted. There was never any gain in trying to control the Emperor; he always had his own agenda.  “I hope that you and I can speak plainly,” he continued. “I'm sure you’re more than aware of the position we’re both in and the implications of John’s abdication. It does mute the leverage of the families and syndicates, but there are others who will use any opportunity to shift the balance of power. Many more like Obadiah are circling, ready to strike if they sense a weakness. This is why it’s imperative to know as soon as possible if you are with child.”  “I understand.”  This was it, the moment to admit that Garrett couldn’t be the father. The truth hovered on the tip of her tongue for the time it took Stephen to approach; she didn’t know just how much he would be able to divine with his mix of magic and healing. Maybe speaking up was the right thing to do after all.   But she didn’t. “Shall I …” She offered her hand, fingers turned up so he could take a drop of blood.  “I don’t need that.” Stephen simply wrapped his hand around hers. “I listen to the resonances of life forces; we’re all connected, not just through blood but by relationships. It’s much more nuanced and targeted.” She didn’t jump when he reached out and placed the other open palm over her stomach. “Then you know the odds are I’m not pregnant because it’s much too soon.”  “I know that Ororo Munro’s fertility potions are the best; it’s the shamanic magic she mixes in with the traditional herbs.”  Stephen’s eyes closed and he tilted his head as if he was listening to something far away. It was then, as the room grew quiet, that Phil realized his hand was shaking, a continual tremor; looking down, she saw the web of gnarled skin across them, how some had clearly been broken and healed wrong. Even with the faint glow of gold that heralded his magic, Stephen Strange’s hands were a map of scars.  “Almost …” He turned his palm and shifted to the left; his eyes opened and he stared at Phil, the blue irises dilating. For a moment, he searched for an answer to some unspoken question, then he stepped back and smiled. “Congratulations. I’d say you’re about two weeks along.”  “Oh.” She sat back, the confirmation hitting her harder than she expected. He squeezed her hand before letting it go and turning to the Emperor. “And to you too, Your Majesty, on your soon-to-be heir.”  Wunagan’s eyes lit up with unfeigned pleasure; he dipped his head, hands grasping the arms of the chair and let out a long sigh. “Excellent. This is best for the Empire. The best.”  “Yes.” Phil managed to find her voice, and, somehow, avoid looking at Clint. “For Coulfell as well.”  A soft hand landed on her shoulder then Winifred was bending over and giving her a hug. “How wonderful!”  A sudden lump appeared in her throat; if Phil had learned anything in the last few days, it was that Winifred Hand could keep a secret. And she was going to be a wonderful grandmother.  “Stephen, make sure to register the lineage and the succession with Bishop Blake and send a runner to the ArchBishop to certify it. I want this official as soon as possible, just like we talked about,” the Emperor said. “As of this moment, Captain Rogers’ primary assignment is the protection deal for Philomena and the baby. He can handpick his team — yes, you can bring those two back from the dead with full pay and any pardons — and Rhodes can take command of the garrison for the border. Plus, they’ll be close to Anthony; he’s going to need help to root out Obediah’s rot. The man had tentacles everywhere.”  The  immediate orders shouldn’t have surprised her; Wunagan was a master planner. His reign had been successful precisely because he could foresee so many possible outcomes and manage them all. He wasn’t perfect; he’d missed his sister-in-law Nnedi’s insatiable drive for power, hidden under a soft voice and a quiet demeanor. Almost everyone had underestimated how willing she was to get her hands bloody.  “And speaking of rot,” the Emperor continued. “I will be very disappointed if you haven’t already uncovered the culprits behind that unconscionable spell. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the absence of most of your father’s councilors in favor of all the young blood you’ve stationed in my line of sight. My inquiries have not been as fruitful as I would have liked, and I’m sure there are people styming my efforts. I am very aware that some at court are merely biding their time until I shuffle off this mortal body in the hopes of advancing their own agendas.” “Yes, I’m afraid that’s true,” Phil answered. “Obediah, as you said, is but one strand in a complicated plot. The people around me and those you’ve seen have been invaluable in helping untangle the connections and reveal the hatred and twisted thoughts that are poisoning so many courts and countries.” She took a breath. “If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to start at the beginning and explain how we arrived here; you’ll be able to understand better why he did it and what he hoped to gain from it that way.”  Wunagan eyed everyone in the room, his gaze lingering on Clint and Winifred before returning to Phil. “Spin your tale for me, Queen Philomena. I am very interested to hear how it ends.”  There had been seven different plans on how to impart the news to the Emperor; Phil had meticulously worked through each one in preparation for whatever might happen. Even Steve had admitted she’d been as thorough as he would have been. Having Wunagan ask so bluntly was option number four; she hadn’t expected Winifred and Stephen Strange to be present, but everyone else was accounted for and knew their roles. It would be nice to have Daisy, but the Emperor had talked to her when she’d delivered his cake, per his request, so that would suffice. Now it all fell to her to ask for justice for her father and brothers and all the others murdered because of one man’s ambitions.  “It starts at the Collegium with a young man named Nathaniel Essex,’ she began. “Back when Elizabeth Ross, Bruce Banner, and Barbara Morse were doing their training.”  “Admiral Essex’s son?” Wunagan asked. “Strange boy, if I’m remembering correctly; I can’t remember the last time Essex has even mentioned him, much less brought him to court.”  “That’s because he left the Collegium before he finished his studies, disappeared between terms. Betty has only a vague memory of Nathaniel getting along with Ophelia Sarkissian; it was Bobbi who remembered his fascination with poisons and him running afoul of the healer’s code because of outlawed experiments.”  “Sarkissian I know; she worked for Von Strucker for a while and has made quite a name for herself among the true lineage crowd.” Wunagan’s brow furrowed. “But the spell is beyond her abilities; we ruled her out almost immediately. Most of her work falls apart before she can cast anything.”  “The Sokovian woman who made your protection rune saw both Sarkissian and Essex in Von Strucker’s labs,” Phil told him. “Ophelia went by the name Viper and Nathianel was called Sinister. They helped Arnim Zola work on his blood warrior program, testing on prisoners of war in hopes of turning them into perfect soldiers.”  “Ah.” Wunagan nodded. “There’s the connection. That explains the dark haired assassin who popped up all over the Empire and why he suddenly disappeared.  You got Barnes back, didn’t you Steve? But why did Wilson play dead?”  “Grief,” Steve explained. “I saved Sam on the bridge and Bucky fell. We both went a little crazy for a bit. I channeled my rage into finding Bucky; Sam needed time to heal.”  “So Zola got his spell to work,” the Emperor mused. “But only on Barnes.”  “Betty and Bruce think it’s because those types of spells take what’s already in a person’s blood and build upon it.  They’re working with Prince Loki of Asgard and Princess Shuri of Wakanda to backward engineer the magic used. And you’ve already met Daisy Johnson; she’s been integral to the effort to understand how a whole blood line can be wiped out so quickly.”  “And here I thought Betty Ross was visiting cousins on the Eastern Rim. Seems Thaddeus has been lying about his daughter’s whereabouts,” Wunagan  said. “Bruce Banner. Hmmmmm … wasn’t he the suitor that Ross got kicked out, Stephen?”  “Studies the effects of pathogens on blood mutations,” Stephen replied. “Brilliant man. I heard him at his thesis defense; the committee gave him the highest marks, but then he was passed over for fellow positions and he had to leave. Everyone knew Ross wanted him gone.”  “Interesting, Loki, Shuri, Betty, Morse, Banner … this would be the group that young Daisy spoke of, the one where they are creating their own community outside the University? Quite a list of the best and brightest,” the Emperor mused. “I wondered where they were all going. Perhaps you have a point, Stephen, about the hidebound rules and old men running things. We’ll have to look into it. But, please continue, Phil.” “The trail gets a little fuzzy after Essex leaves Von Strucker; there are at least four years in there during and after the end of the war that he’s unaccounted for, but everyone who knew him says he was capable of working out both the aerosol transmission of the spell he bought from Justin D’Marteau as well as the deadly mutation effect. Daisy can explain in more detail, but the simple answer is that Nathaniel realized he didn’t need to target a trait of the blood like the warrior program; in order to kill, he only had to turn blood into poison. Loki has isolated five different poisons from samples of those who died. All Essex needed was some Coulson blood and everyone within three generations would die.”  “Someone had to give him that sample,” the Emperor said. “So we have our two components of perfidy. Essex selling his skills and a man who wanted your family out of the way. And it almost worked except for you.” She saw the moment he made the connection and understood the implications. “Ah. Of course. But did the purchaser know you would survive? If he didn’t, he’d try again. But if he did …”  “Orlando Coulson is not my father.” Phil stated it baldly, the time for obfuscation gone. “He and my mother were too close in blood for her to carry to term or have a healthy child. So they picked a man who was a distant relation, someone they trusted, who looked enough like a Coulson for there to be no questions asked. They ensured the people present at the birth were those they trusted, and Bishop Cedric filed the paperwork with the Church. Then they never spoke of it again; had the spell not been unleashed, no one would ever have known.”  “And you know this is true?” Wunagan asked.  “I was there,” Winifred spoke up. “At Philomena’s birth. I knew.”  “As did my mother’s maid; she gave a statement before she died to the Spymaster,” Phil added.  “So, it was your blood father who paid Essex,” Wunagan said. “A man Orlando would have considered a close and trusted ally. To what end?”  “To have a grandchild of his blood on the Imperial throne,” Phil bluntly stated. “He’s obsessed with having his family at the head of all the major offices whether that’s through a child of his line or by marriage. You’ve already met another of his bastards today; Daisy is the brightest mage of her generation. And you know the most talented healer on the fast track to running the Collegium. Marry her off to a brilliant artificer and …”  “Gods’ blood.” Wunagan sat back in his chair, his shoulders slumping; he looked fragile, his body shrinking in upon itself. “I knew Cadelinea’s death hit him hard -- she always was the mitigating factor in his temperament -- but I thought the sell of the house was grief.” “He needed the money,” Phil told him. “He called in debts and cleared out his safe three days before the spell. His servants said he left the next day and didn’t return until two days after everyone was dead. He said he was going to clear out the hunting lodge, but he took all his winter gear and three pouches filled with gold that were empty when he came back. We’ve tracked him north through Aperia and up into the mountains and have people working through the small towns on the edge of Whitehall’s kingdom as we speak, trying to find Essex’s location.”  For a moment, the Emperor faltered, his hands trembling as he reached for his whiskey; he took a long sip then sighed.  “It never ends. The plotting and fighting and willingness to kill. All for what? Power? Money? None of that matters, I can tell you. I’ve lived a long life and, trust me, when you’re facing death, none of that keeps you warm or holds you in the middle of the night or makes you feel safe and loved. So many people gone, lost to hatred and greed and outright evil. My brothers and sisters, my wife, my children … and now I’ve condemned you and this child to the same fate, always looking over your shoulder, on guard, worried that this may be the last day you see your loved ones …”  The shaking increased and Wunagan’s breaths grew shorter.  “Your Highness.” Stephen was in motion, reaching for his bag and opening the flap. “Can someone get some tea? The tincture is better if it’s hot.” Melinda was out the door before Stephen came up with the small paper pouch.  “I don’t need that,” the Emperor objected. He dragged in a long breath and pressed his hands against his thighs. “I’m just angry, damn it.”  “I’ll be the judge of what you need,” Stephen said. “You’ve already pushed yourself getting here and I know you didn’t sleep this afternoon. You’ll take your medicine because you want to be around to see the baby and push the Queen to name it something from some old story with a Wu or Gan added to the end.”  “Thinks he can order me around just because he’s that damn good at his job,” Wunagan told Winifred.  “He’s right, though,” Winifred replied, patting the Emperor’s hand. “You do like those epic tales, but I think a traditional Coulson name would be better, in honor of those who have gone.”  Melinda was back, a tea set in her hands; she sat it on the table near Stephen and poured four cups of the steaming fragrant liquid. Strange picked up each in turn and sipped it then mixed the powder from the pouch into one and drank a second time. Waiting a few moments, he delivered it to the Emperor. “Drink and I might be persuaded to let you have a cup of coffee in the morning.”  “Oh huzzah. One cup.” Wunagan took a long drink. “Is this red tea with … vanilla?”  “Originally from Karanthe,” Clint said. “Vanilla and honeyleaf with just a hint of peppercorn.”  The old man’s eyes narrowed as if he suddenly remembered Clint was in the room.  “Spent some time out there, did you? That’s where you met the Widow and earned those bow string calluses, I bet.”  Clint glanced sideways at Phil; she gave a barely there shrug in return.  “No need to look askance at your Queen, boy. I don’t bite.  Just trying to test your mettle a bit; Philomena might trust you, but I don’t know you yet.” Wunagan drank again and his hand stopped trembling. “Alright, I know you have a plan -- probably more than one if Rogers helped you lay things out. Sending Stark to distract and consternate Stane was a solid start; how are you going after Simmons?”  “I thought we’d give him enough rope and let him hang himself,” Phil replied.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind —

Emily Dickinson

“Well that went about as well as we could hope,” Phil said as they entered the room. “Thank the gods that Tony pulled off his end of things.” 
 
Clint immediately unbuttoned his collar and sat down to take off his dress boots that pinched his toes. 
 
“He’s scary,” Clint said, tossing the offending stiff black leather into a corner. “He knows everything.” 
 
“Dad always said Wunagan was half mage, half seer, and all bullshit.  His network of informants rivals the Spymaster’s; personally, I think he’s just lived so long and has a memory like an elephant.” Phil turned to Clint. “Unlace me, would you? I could use a deep breath or two.” 
 
“And the way he looked at me, like I was an interesting bug he’d found in the garden. It was unnerving.” Clint’s deft fingers quickly loosened the ties and helped Phil slip out of the brocade outer corset.  “He’s never bothered with me before and now he’s inviting me to his inner sanctum.”
 
”You were standing right behind me.” Phil rolled her shoulders and stretched as she freed her shirt from the waistband of her skirt. “He probably already has Nick Fury running dossiers on everyone in the palace. Of course he’s going to want to know who you are and how you fit into things.” 
 
“Mmmmm.” Clint slid his arms around her waist and slipped his hands under her breasts, cupping them in his palms. “I’m pretty sure I know how … and where … I fit into you.” 
 
“Is that supposed to be seductive?” Phil leaned back against his broad chest. “No one would buy that.” 
 
“Good thing you’ve already tasted my wares.” He dropped a kiss in the sensitive spot behind her ear.
 
“You’re incorrigible,” Phil said, letting her head fall onto Clint’s shoulder as he teased her nipples with his thumbs. “I don’t know why I put up with you.” 
 
“Because I am very talented with my hands,” he pinched until the nubs hardened, “my mouth,” he kissed her breathless, “my tongue,” he licked a stripe up her neck, “and my …”
 
She laughed and it was a delight to hear the uninhibited sound from her lips. “What am I going to do with you?” 
 
“Love me forever,” he murmured against her skin. “Just like I love you.” 
 
For the next few hours, they forgot about the world outside, the dangers that awaited them, and the monster with the face of an old family friend they still had to face down. The night was filled with soft touches and long moans and rocking hips and beads of sweat. Tangled together in the soft sheets, they made love then dozed then woke to find each other again in the dark of the night. Clint held her while she slept, watched the rise and fall of her breaths, and wondered just how he’d gotten everything he’d ever wanted, him the poor relation overlooked and forgotten except by the few who counted. 
 
And if Clint leaned over and stroked her belly, if he whispered a greeting, if he kissed the soft skin there, well, he could be forgiven for loving the child they had made together. They were already breaking all the rules, changing expectations, so what were a few more boundaries to cross? 
 
The morning brought a quick breakfast in the early wan light and sent Clint to sow the seeds of doubt.  The first goal was to make Harald believe he had achieved his goals, and that meant dropping some tidbits of information where they were sure to be overheard. He had a conversation with Mack about Steve and Rhodey’s new commands; Mack would be tasked with helping house the new Imperial guard since his family’s lands were near the northern border. The trick was to not say it outright, but talk around the subject, leaving just enough hints that a listener would think they figured it out on their own. Then he was present for Jemma’s performance of the dutiful daughter, offering her a shoulder and sympathetic ear;  it wouldn’t be hard for anyone to infer that she had accepted her father’s edict about Fitz since his wishes were common knowledge. 
 
Tony played his part to the hilt, swanning around the castle, downing Obediah at every chance, and making plans to step back into his role as Lord of Starkridge; he even went so far as to invite both Harald and Alstair to meet with him the next day to talk about renewing old alliances.  Clint had lunch with Victoria and Winifred, seated in the back garden filled with paths that many servants took to go from one part of the castle to another.  From Winifred’s joyous smile and Victoria’s pleased reaction, by midafternoon the whole place was buzzing with the speculation about the Queen’s pregnancy, the Emperor’s troops, and Jemma’s soon-to-be, if not already, engagement. 
 
But that wasn’t enough; they didn’t want Harald to just believe he’d won, they also needed him to overplay his hand in front of the Emperor, and that meant a second layer of misdirection. The tiniest of touches between Clint and Phil, side glances and eye contact, trying too hard to not be too close. Winifred spending the afternoon with Phil, going through her wardrobe and making modeste appointments. Natasha glowering at anyone who got too close, a constant shadow over Phil’s shoulder. Between Wunagan’s attention last night and the hints they planted today, Harald should infer that the Hands were rising in power, becoming closer to Phil, and maybe a danger to his own ambitions. Add in the worry about what Stane might give up to keep himself out of a deep dungeon, and Simmons would be primed to act. 
 
It would also paint a target on Clint, Victoria, and Winifred’s back, and Harald had proven how deadly he could be. Victoria could take care of herself, but Clint had wanted to send his Aunt out of harm’s way. Winifred had flat out refused, insisting she be part of the plan, and the woman was stubborn when she set her mind on something.  Clint had only agreed after Natasha assured him that between Sam and Bucky, Winifred would always have a protector.  
 
Even the order of the Emperor’s day was set to confound. The Mays were Wunagan’s breakfast guests then the Mackenzies visited during lunch. By the time Alstair took the tea slot, Simmons was at a full boil, venting his frustration at the servants but keeping it under a lid to everyone else. His time with the Imperial ear was pushed all the way until after dinner … and he was upset to discover he was not alone. 
 
“Your Majesty?” he said as he entered the Emperor’s rooms to find Phil already seated; his eyes took in Steve and Natasha then landed on Clint who was standing just behind Phil, a hand on the padded curve of the chair. “I didn’t expect you here.” 
 
“Harald, please, sit.” She motioned to the empty chair across from her. “The Emperor is running behind schedule, and I had hoped to have a moment or two with you. It’s been such a busy day, and there’s so much to discuss.” 
 
Clint settled into his resting face, his gaze never moving from Simmons. 
 
“Of course.” Harald sat, glancing up at Clint one more time before turning his attention to Phil. “Actually, I’m glad to have the chance to speak to you as well. The rumors are running rampant -- you know how servants gossip -- and I want you to know you can put your trust in me during this time of  … change.” 
 
“Yes, I’m pregnant.” She dropped that tidbit, and Clint, as always, was amazed at how calm Phil could be when everything hung in the balance. “The Emperor is aware and is taking all the necessary steps to make the lineage official.” 
 
“Excellent!” Simmons’ smile was broad and Clint wanted to wipe it off his face. “Such wonderful news for Coulfell; this is exactly what we need.” 
 
“Not just Coulfell, but the Empire as well,” Phil corrected. “As you have often said, I have to start thinking on a global scale; the political implications are much broader now …  which is why I have to refuse your request for a marriage between Jemma and Leo.” 
 
“What?” He clearly wasn’t expecting that turn. 
 
“It’s imperative we make alliances to shore up support for the heir. Without family of my own to offer, I’ll need to rely upon bloodlines that I know are loyal to the House of Coulson.” So matter of factly, Phil tore down one of the pillars of Harald’s plan. “Father was in talks with King T’Chakka about a union between our houses -- Bertie and Shuri would have been such a good match -- but the Princess is also friends with Leo and they’re both artificers.  And Prince Loki’s magic would compliment Jemma’s healing so well; Asgard has been one of the Emperor’s most stalwart defenders.” 
 
“But … the marriage has long been talked about …” Harald sputtered. 
 
“Yes, I know, but the situation has changed.” Phil literally waved her hand as she dismissed his concern. “I’ll also have to rethink the make-up of my advisors to include more diversity. Stane is an asshole, but he was right that it can’t be all Coulfell people. I’m thinking Charles Xavier for a start -- he’s such a calming influence.  Sue Richards would be wonderful, but she’s so busy keeping Reed’s worst impulses in check, so maybe Ben Grimm; he and I get along well, and he’s steady as a rock. Of course, there will need to be some balance; as much as Charles and Erik bicker, Lehnsherr does put the needs of his people first, so he can be reasoned with …” 
 
“And what of those of us who have served your family all these years?” Harald jumped in to ask. “Surrounding yourself with young people isn’t a good idea; you’ll be cut off from those who truly wield the power at court, the established names who have the experience advise you and the heir.” 
 
“You mean people like Alexander Pierce, the man who’s funding Arnim Zola and letting him continue his magical experimentation?  Victor Von Doom, a megalomaniac with delusions of godhood? Obadiah Stane? A man who murdered innocents to steal his throne?” Phil shook her head. “I agree with the Emperor; it’s time for some new blood.” 
 
Simmons leaned forward and laid a hand on Phil’s knee; Clint just barely stopped himself from growling in the man’s direction. 
 
“Philomena.” Harald’s voice was smooth but it grated along Clint’s spine, raising the hackles on the back of his neck. “I know this has been difficult, the corrupt Imperial guard’s attempt, Stane’s ham handed mercenary attack, and the kid working for Aperia. Yes, some of the nobility are selfish bastards, but most will want a peaceful succession. Your loss has been great, but don’t let your emotions make your decisions. You’re young; you need experienced people to help you navigate through all of it.” 
 
Phil’s back went straight, her chin rose, and the temperature tumbled as she replied. 
 
“I may be young, but I am neither naive nor gullible, Lord Simmons. I know how corrupt the world can be, what darkness can be hidden in even the most seemingly good people.  I was sold in marriage to Grant Ward, a sadistic bastard who took pleasure in torture and murder … and he was still a better option than his brother, Christian. I agreed to give my body to a known gambler who would do anything to pay his debts because it was good for Coulfell. I’ve given up friendships and had accepted that I would never have a choice in who I married. I’m bringing a child into this world, knowing that childbirth is deadly for far too many women because the Church refuses to change their out-of-date teachings. I’m going to raise this child where assassination attempts and kidnappings and blackmail are a constant threat.” 
 
She reached down and removed Harald’s hand. 
 “My ‘loss,’ as you so blithely put it, was an evil act by a coward who hid behind someone else’s spell and chose to kill so many in pursuit of their twisted agenda. If there’s one thing my grandmother taught me, it’s that people become set in their thinking as they age and they too easily fall prey to ideologies of men like Strucker and Zola and Whitehall and Pierce. As my father always said, you can’t reach for anything new if your hands are full of old ideas and grudges.”  
She put extra emphasis on the word father. 
 
“From now on, I will surround myself with  those who have proven themselves to be worthy of my trust, whose advice and support make me a better Queen and stronger ruler. I will make alliances I see fit and choose whose guidance I listen to.  And my body is no longer for sale to the highest bidder nor is anyone else’s; if Jemma does not wish to marry Loki or Leo, she will not do so. I have no interest in maintaining the purity of blood lines nor do I care about lineage or upbringing or how close someone is to the throne. I want the best and brightest even if that includes an orphan like Daisy Johnson, a maid’s son like Steve Rogers, or a poor relation like Clint.  If you don’t agree with that, you are welcome to have your opinion, but it won’t be one I have on the Council. Am I clear?”
 
Clint wanted to clap as she ended her speech; it was so satisfying to hear her say it out loud and to watch Simmons as he realized she was effectively boxing him in. 
 
“Ah.” Harald sat back in his chair; emotions chased across his face until, in a few seconds, he settled on a curl of his lips that Cint would be hard pressed to call a smile. “Yes, you certainly learned Ovfelia’s bearing and inherited your mother’s sympathetic streak. It is hard to remember, sometimes, that you are all grown and adults in your own rights when I remember you as children.  I misjudged you; I apologize.” His gaze flickered towards Clint for the barest of heartbeats.  “I only meant to express my worry about those who will try to take advantage; I would have said the same to William or any of the boys in the same situation. But I see you have set your mind on your course and, as always, the Simmons family will support you.” 
 
She paused a beat before answering, and Clint took great pleasure in the way she was playing Harald. The man deserved it.  
 
“That’s good to know,” she said, still not relaxing her body or changing her tone. “My father counted you as one of his closest friends.” 
 
Before he could respond, the door opened and the Emperor entered the room, led by Rhodey and followed by Strange. The two Imperial guards stayed outside, letting Melinda and a serving woman bring in trays with tea and sweets. For a moment, the room was bustling with industry as the food was laid out and everyone stood. Only after Wunagan sat and Melinda began pouring the tea did they all take their chairs again. 
 
“Harald Simmons.” The Emperor took his cup, tincture stirred in and tasted by Stephen before he sipped. “I spoke to your daughter earlier today; she is quite brilliant, isn’t she?  She has all sorts of new ideas about medicine; Strange is going to consult with her.” 
 
“She is.” Harald practically beamed at the praise. “Queen Philomena and I were just discussing possibilities for her.” 
 
“I’m sure Jemma will have a bright future,” Phil agreed. “She is capable of charting her own course and has the will to make it happen.” 
 
“Indeed,” the Emperor agreed. “I would think she would make a …” 
 
A skittering then a scraping sound made Clint’s head turn; gray smoke began to billow from the fireplace, falling to the floor and rolling out into the room. Rhody was the closest to Wunagan; he immediately pulled him out of his chair, picking him up as if he weighed nothing.  Stephen stepped in front of them and, with a wave of his hands, a sparkling gold shield appeared, blocking the smoke’s path. 
 
Natasha was at Phil’s side in a blink, pulling her up so both of them were standing on the chair as the gray cloud rolled underneath them. By the tea set, Melinda was up onto a stool and then the buffet in seconds.  
 
From his spot by the fireplace, a hint of a breeze cooled Clint’s cheek, and he caught a whiff of burnt oil that tickled his nose. Small pebbles bounced onto the hearth and, as he glanced down,  he saw the mist was almost at his toes. Just then a hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged him backward. 
 
“Get out of the way, Barton,” Harald said. 
 
There was another scent, the faint odor of cedar; only oak logs laid unlit on the grate, but thick gray smoke was still spilling out, making it impossible to avoid the low cloud that fell heavily on the ground.  It touched Rhodey first, his feet disappearing into the mist. Then it filtered over Harald, splitting around his ankles, moving on to Steve. When it reached Clint, he felt nothing as it engulfed his lower legs. The cloud just lay, inert and heavy, sinking slowly into the floor as it began to dissipate. 
 
“It’s another of those spells,” Harald announced. “It must be targeting someone.” 
 
“No, it’s not.” Phil climbed down from the chair, stepping lightly into it. “The spell smoke moved with intent. This isn’t the same.”
 
“Something was in the chimney,” Clint said. “I imagine we’ll find some oil soaked cedar in the flue.” 
 
“It smells burnt,” Steve agreed. “They just want us to think it’s the spell.”
 
“But …” Harald began.
 
“A fear tactic,” Melinda suggested, jumping lightly to the floor. “Someone wants to scare us.”
 
“Or an act of misdirection,” Wunagan patted Rhodey’s shoulder so he would set him back on his feet. “Captain Rogers, please check Lord Simmons’ pockets; I’d like to know what he had on his hand when he touched Clinton.” 
 
Clint started and glanced down at his wrist; faint red finger sized marks showed on his exposed skin. 
 
“What? I didn’t …” Harald objected. 
 
“Oh, stop it,” Wunagan ordered. “Stane’s not the only one who is ham handed. You’ve overplayed and you know it.”
 
“How dare you suggest …” Harald tried to side step Steve, but Natasha was there, dagger point in the small of his back, holding him still. “I will not be treated like a common criminal!” 
 
“Got it.” Steve pulled out a small vial, the same kind Jemma used to make healing potions. A few drops of reddish liquid gathered in the bottom.  “Stephen?” 
 
Strange took it and weaved a different spell around it, this one glowing blue instead of gold. 
 
Simmons chose that moment to make his attempt to get away; he ducked around Steve and spun away from Natasha’s blade. He barely made it a step before Melinda’s fist plowed into his face and knocked him backward. 
 
“Oh, no you don’t,” she told him. “You’re going nowhere.”
 
“It’s a simple blood poison,” Stephen said. “Anyone of the lineage would die almost instantly upon contact.” 
 
Clint’s blood went cold. “Whose blood did you use?”
 
“Winifried is such an easy target; I’ve had her blood for years.” Harald’s smile was cruel. “Past time that old bitch got her comeuppance. Always meddling where she wasn’t wanted, keeping her secrets. She knew, has she told you? This whole time she’s known Phil’s my daughter and she did nothing about it. That’s my grandchild who will be the Emperor one day.” 
 
“Son of a …” Clint tried to launch himself at Harald, but Steve’s hands circled his biceps and kept him in place.  “If you’ve hurt Winnie or Vickie …”
 
“Sam and Bucky are there,” Steve reminded him. “And Trip handpicked the guards around them; they’re safe.” 
 
“Oh but it’s so easy. Women and their mourning, they leave themselves wide open to be manipulated; with poor little Clint dead, anyone could get to them.” Harald shrugged. “Even you, Philomena, with your tears and your daily absolution in the tombs. It was child’s play to point you in the right direction after your father was gone. All your talk about making your own choices and you fell right in line.” 
 
This time it was Phil who hit him, her fist cracking the bone in his nose and making his head snap backwards.
 
“That’s for my father and brothers, you sadistic shit.” She hauled off and hit him again. “This is for trying to kill Clint.” Another blow landed and he cried out. “And this is Daisy and Jemma.” She pulled her arm back again, but Melinda gently pushed her elbow down. 
 
“I had nothing to do with your family …” Harald’s denial was slurred by the blood running from his nose and the trickle from the corner of his mouth. 
 
“Do continue lying.” Natasha stepped in front of Harald. “My interrogation skills are getting rusty; I need someone to practice on. I’m sure the Queen will give us a nice dark cell to have a little chat.” 
 
Harald blinked, opened his mouth, then thought better of it and said nothing. 
 
“I bet he gives up Essex in a day,” Steve said. 
 
Harald’s eyes widened at the name. 
 
“Two candle marks,” Clint corrected. When Natasha raised an eyebrow his way, he explained. “You said you were rusty and I know you like to sharpen your knives first.” 
 
“This is all well and good,” Stephen said, “but Clint’s alive. If the potion was made with his aunt’s blood …” 
 
“It should have worked! He’s Winifred’s cousin’s kid, damn it. I made sure it had a wide enough lineage spread. I paid extra for the assurance.” Harald spat out. “I can’t believe Phil’s fucking a common blood like him. Does the Emperor know the odds are he’s the father of the baby? I doubt you care how distant the relation is; anything’s better than Garrett, eh, Wunagan?”  
 
Clint’s punch landed square on Harald’s jaw; his eyes rolled back and he slid to the floor, out cold. 
 
“Your Majesty,” Phil began. “I …” 
 
“Yes, yes. Stephen’s magic is quite nuanced; I know Clinton is the father of the baby.” Wunagan waved away her response. “I think the events of this evening call for a glass of whiskey, the good stuff, don’t you agree, Stephen? Rhodes if you’d be so kind as to call Lady Winifred and her daughter so we can do this all at once rather than in dribs and drabs. Captain Rogers, please toss that man into a very deep and preferably dank dungeon cell so we can clear the room.” 
 
When the Emperor issued orders, things happened quickly. In short order, Harald was gone and whiskey was being served. 
 
“Clinton,” Wunagan called as he patted the chair by him. “Humor an old man, would you?” 
 
A spike of worry flashed through Clint; he glanced at Phil as he sat down. She quirked an eyebrow at him, obviously as in the dark as he was. Taking the glass Melinda held out to him, Clint sipped at the potent liquor as he wondered if Wunagan had been ahead of them the whole time. He certainly had seemed surprised to learn of Harald’s role as villain of the piece; maybe it was all an act, this knowing everything, but Clint didn’t think so. 
 
“So how long have you worked for Nick Fury?” The Emperor asked. 
 
Clint blinked. Tried to speak. Swallowed. Tried again. 
 
“Not quite two years,” he answered, then remembered to tack on. “Your Highness.” 
 
“You started with him before or after you made a contract with your Widow?” Watery eyes were trained on every microexpression. 
 
“After,” Clint said. “And I don’t have a contract with Natasha. We’re partners.” 
 
“Indeed? Interesting.” Wunagan tilted his head. “Do you sing?” 
 
“Ah, I …” Clint couldn’t follow the thread of this very odd conversation. “Yes? I mean, I enjoy it and I’m fairly decent at carrying a tune, but nothing special.” 
 
“Don’t downplay your talent,” Natasha said. “Your voice has earned us dinner and a roof over our heads more than once. Got us inside The Peach Peacock during that hurricane.”
 
“That was an interesting few days.” Clint huffed a laugh. “Learned how to put on eyeliner and perform a formal tea ceremony.” 
 
“I’ve been there,” Strange said. “Best house in all of Muritania Pelagos.” 
 
“Was that where you went?” Wunagan asked Stephen. “You were shedding glitter for days.” 
 
“Yes.” Stephen smiled. “Yes I was.” 
 
The door opened and Steve returned. 
 
“Lord Simmons is in the very capable hands of Antoine Tripplet, Coulfell Captain of the Guard,” he told the Emperor. “They’re taking him down the back stairs in a cloak to try and keep it quiet until the Queen decides how to handle things.”  
 
“Thank you,” Phil replied. 
 
“So Clinton, what made you leave Coulfell?” The Emperor didn’t stop his interrogation. “That was, what … three or four years ago?” 
 
“Four.” Clint sipped his whiskey, the burn helping to ease the tension in his chest. “I wanted to make something of myself. Here I was Aunt Winnie’s poor relation; out there I could be whatever I wanted.” 
 
“Ah.” Wunagan nodded. “My father insisted I do the same, sent me off with a small pouch of coins and one companion and told me not to come back for at least two years. I went south, saw the Tresour Sea, got into all kinds of trouble and got myself out of it. I wanted the same for my eldest, but Donnie was a more creative soul. He loved music, wrote orchestral pieces and, had he not been killed, would have done well at the Collegium or the Bardic College. Now my Edgwythe, she had the voice of an angel, but only wanted to sing sea shanties and drinking songs. She did it to torment all the courtiers who pandered to her; nothing ran them off better than a few verses of ‘The Barmaid’s Dilemma’.” 
 
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Clint said. “There are always new lyrics being added; you can go on forever if you really want to annoy someone.” 
 
“Four years, eh?” There was that stare again, cutting right through him. “That would have been right about when Philomena was off to marry Ward’s younger son. Now that was a travesty … necessary, I’m afraid, but a travesty nonetheless.”
 
The door opened again and this time Rhodey led Winifred and Victoria into the room. Winifred took two steps, saw Clint sitting next to the Emperor, and stopped dead in her tracks so suddenly that Victoria bumped into her. 
 
“Alright, this next part is invitation only.” Wunagan announced. “That means everyone who’s not a Hand, sleeping with a Hand, related to a Hand, Captain Rogers, or Stephen must go.” 
 
Melinda waited for Phil’s nod then headed towards the door.  
 
Natasha stood, but Clint caught her arm. 
 
“She stays,” he insisted. “She’s family.” 
 
The Emperor’s gaze turned her way. 
 
“Are you?” he asked her. 
 
“Yes,” Natasha replied without hesitation. 
 
“And do you vow to protect them … all of them?” Wunagan continued.
 
“To my dying breath,” she promised. “And if life after death is possible, beyond.” 
 
“Good. You can stay,” he said. “Oh, and Stephen, cast one of those silence spells, if you would? That way we know there'll be no eavesdropping.” 
 
A wave of Strange’s hands and a glowing circle appeared on the floor, wide enough to surround all their chairs. 
 
“Sit, sit.” Wunagan waved at Winifred and Victoria. “It’s time for answers.” 
 
Then it was just them in the room, Clint and Phil, Natasha and Steve, Winifred and Victoria, Strange and the Emperor. Winifred took a chair opposite Clint, Victoria pulling another up close behind her.
 
“Simmons tried to murder Clint,” Wunagan began. 
 
“What?” Winifred and Victoria spoke at the same time. 
 
“Are you okay?” Winifred asked Clint. 
 
“What happened?” Victoria demanded. 
 
“He had a blood poison,” Phil explained. “The plan was to use Clint’s death to get to the two of you while you were mourning.” 
 
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Winifred cursed, surprising no one but Steve. 
 
“Where is he?” Victoria asked, her anger showing on her face.
 
“In the dungeon; Trip’s watching him,” Clint told them. “He can’t hurt anyone anymore.” 
 
“A blood poison?” Winifred’s face went ashen. “Who’s blood …” 
 
“Yours,” Natasha said. “But it didn’t work.”
 
Natasha gave Clint that sad little half-smile, the one that said she’d figured things out and the truth was going to hurt.  
 
For a few seconds there was silence in the room, then Wunagan asked, “All these years, Winifred. Why did you never tell me?” 
 
“It’s what she wanted.” Winifred’s voice trembled and tears began to collect at the corner of her eyes. “She made me swear a blood oath that I would never tell anyone. Not even Clint.” 
 
“Tell me what?” A knot tightened in Clint’s chest. “What’s going on?” 
 
“Oh.” The sound escaped from Phil’s mouth as her eyes widened. “The spell didn’t work on me because I wasn’t a Coulson, and the poison didn’t work on you because … “
 
“He’s not a Hand.” Victoria turned to stare at her mother. “Is he?” 
 
“She made me promise if anything happened to her, I’d keep him safe.” Winifred was crying now, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Somehow, she knew what was coming; she smuggled him off the ship with a tinker who had no idea who she was, just a day before she died.” 
 
“No.” Clint sat back as the import of what she was saying hit him. 
 
“I’m sorry, my darling boy. It was the only way; while Nnedi was alive, she wouldn’t have hesitated to send assassins for you. I know it wasn’t easy, growing up as a distant relative, but it was the safest I could make you.” She started to reach for him then pulled her hand back. 
 
“It’s not true.” Clint looked at Natasha, but it was written in her emerald eyes. “It can’t be.”  He turned to the Emperor. “I’m not …” 
 
“The child the Queen is carrying is most definitely yours,” Stephen said. “I can see the connection straight from the babe to you to the Emperor, a direct line.”
 
“The baby is …” Winifred’s eyes widened. 
 
“Yes,” Phil told her. “And you’re it’s grandmother. As someone told me recently, blood is not the only way we’re connected. You raised Clint as your own, so you’re family, no matter what.” 
 
“Of course we are!” Winifred surged up out of the chair and wrapped her arms around Phil. “And you’re now my daughter too in every way that matters.” 
 
“Aunt Winnie.” Clint still couldn’t come to terms with the revelation. “You know I’m as far from one of those imperial types as can be. I’m a trouble magnet, I make terrible choices and I have the manners of a country farmer. I’d rather wash the dishes than go to a court function. I ran away rather than deal with my problems. I can’t be …”
 
“You have Edgwythe’s eyes, my boy.” Wunagan’s hands reached out and took Clint’s. “I knew the moment I saw you standing behind Philomena; Stephen only confirmed it. You are my grandson.” 
 
“But.” Clint’s head was spinning. “That would make me … no way in hell.”
 
“The only people who know the truth are in this room right now,” Wunagan said. “I don’t have much time left, or so they tell me, and definitely none to waste on taming the uproar if a new heir suddenly appeared. When I’m gone, I hope Stephen will become the babe’s … and yours and Philomena’s …. personal healer. Captain Rogers has already shifted his loyalty to your little family, and I have no desire for you to be more than you already have planned.” 
 
“Then what do you want?” the question popped out of Clint’s mouth. 
 
“To get to know you. Listen to your stories. Learn about your life.” Wunagan’s gnarled fingers squeezed tight. “Maybe even hear you sing for me.” 
 
Tears gathered and Clint felt a lump in his throat as the old man smiled at him. 
 
“I can do that,” he promised.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

Her breath caught in the back of her throat as the pulse of pleasure rolled up her spine. With slow steady strokes, Clint rocked into her, hitting the tangle of nerves that made her gasp as sparks shot through her system. Curled on her side, Phil arched her back, pressing her breast firmly into Clint’s hand; he teased her nipple, rubbing it between his finger and thumb. His other hand was buried in the wet folds between her legs, caressing her clit and working every sensitive spot. As he rolled his hips, his lips were sucking in divots of skin along her neck and behind her ears, his breath warm on her skin.  “That’s it,” he murmured as she bit back a moan. “Come on, darlin’. Let go.”  In the light that filtered in around the drawn drapes, the room was a play of shadows filled with the soft comfortable bed with handmade quilts and plump pillows, the cozy chairs by the small fireplace, and overflowing bookshelf against the wall. She saw it all through half closed eyelids, this space that was their refuge, where they could be safe and, most of all, not have to wear the practiced faces of court. “Ah.” She let out a little cry as Clint sped up his thrusts; he always got serious about bringing her to completion when he was close, so she raised a knee higher, gave him more access and let herself ride the wave as he pushed her over the edge, following not far behind.  “Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured into her shoulder, his nose buried in her loose hair. HIs hand slipped up to cup her extended belly, fingers tracing a pattern across the distended skin. “And good morning to you too, little one.”  They lay entwined for a few heartbeats, Clint spooning her, his warmth all around. Not that she needed it; the babe kept her running hot throughout the whole winter, her own personal heat source. Now that spring temperatures had arrived, she was already wearing short sleeves and thinner fabrics.   “As much as I’m enjoying this,” she finally had to say. “I need to pee.”  Clint snorted a half-laugh then rolled onto his back; he watched her with heated eyes as she got up to use the chamber pot. Her hair was a mess of tangles from sweating during the night, and her body was five months gone with child. But somehow Clint found even the stretchmarks on her thighs and the extra weight in her butt attractive, and who was she to second guess him when the outcome was a loving husband and healthy sex life.  They were both partially dressed when the knock came at the door then Melinda entered, a maid behind her with an ewer of fresh water. Melinda was far too used to them to be bothered by nudity -- she’d walked in on much more compromising positions without batting an eye -- and they’d gotten too comfortable together to worry about second hand embarrassment.  “All is on schedule.” Melinda began her usual update of the day’s activities. “I’ve kept your morning free and everything is ready for the ceremony tonight. Steve will be back as early as he can drag Tony out of bed; he wants to check everything one more time himself before things begin. Loki is due to spend the day with Wanda; they’re strengthening the protection spells and have a few new ones they want to add. That’s a scary combination of two people I’m not sure should have ever met, much less become friends.” “I think it’s good for both of them,” Phil said as she laced up the bodice of her dress.  “Bruce, Betty, and the rest of the Culver crew are arriving this afternoon; I don’t have a clear count on how many, but we’ve got plenty of rooms for them,” Melinda continued. “May Parker has outdone herself on the cake and sweets and the whole palace smells like herbed roast. Trip’s got the guard running drills and Mack’s helping Leo set up his latest inventions, some sort of warning alarms.”  “Sounds like you have it all under control as always.” Clint pulled on his boots.  “For the most part.” Melinda grimaced. “Xavier and Lehnsherr were up drinking until late last night in Charles’ room, arguing like always; those two will fight about anything. Erik’s room wasn’t slept in and no one’s heard a peep after some raised voices around midnight.”  “Oh-ho! Bucky owes me money!” Clint crowed  as they left the bedroom. “Those two finally went from enemies to lovers, just like I predicted.”  The buffet along the wall in the living area of the lodge had breakfast foods laid out, butter croissants, crispy bacon, and warm oatmeal with toppings. Clint went straight for the urn of coffee and the tea pot; he poured tea for Phil then a cup of coffee for him. After a few sips, he filled a plate with all of Phil’s favorites and handed it to her before getting his own.  “I still feel like I should be there,” Phil said.  “We all agreed staying at the lodge was the best course of action,” Clint reminded her around a big bite of flaky pastry. “From a security standpoint, what with all the guests in the palace, and also to make things more informal for as long as possible.”  “I know. It’s just …” Phil did understand and she certainly was enjoying the peace of being out of the spotlight. “So many people have let Daisy down in her life. I don’t want to be one of those.”  “You’ll be there for the ceremony,” Melinda reminded her. “And you’re hosting the dinner and party. Daisy knows you care.”  The front door swung open and Sam came in, followed closely by a whirlwind of pudgy legs and outstretched arms.  “Mama! Mama! Mama!” The little girl ran full tilt toward Phil, dark hair a mess of curls around her face, barely staying on her feet in her rush. Her fingers were clenched around something wet and dripping. “Look!”  “Whoa there, Sprite.” Clint caught her and hauled her up into his lap, heedless of her waterlogged pants and boots. “What mischief have you been into already?”  “This.” Wilhelmina Mariana Edgwythe Coulson beamed as she held out her prize for her father to inspect. Inside her palm lay a rough edged rock with lines of blue running through it. “Pretty!”  “We’ve been rock hunting,” Winifred said. She had stopped to shed her waders and take down her skirts that she’d tied up to avoid getting wet. “The best ones are in the lower pool of the creek.” “Very pretty, Mina,” Phil agreed. “Where do you want to put it? The terrarium here or in your room in the palace?”  “Here.” She wiggled until Clint sat her down on the floor. “I can do it.”  “I’ve got her; eat your breakfast.” Melinda followed Mina back the hallway to her bedroom.   Just then, Bucky appeared in the doorway, soaked from head to toe, his hair hanging in sodden hanks and a steady stream of water dropping off his clothes and pooling around his feet. He stood on the stones outside, his brow furrowed and thunderous.  “Don’t,” he warned as soon as Clint opened his mouth. “I am not in the mood for any of your comments.”  “Seems the rain yesterday loosened some of the bank near the rope swing,” Sam explained, his eyes dancing with merriment. “Fortunately Bucky figured that out before anyone could get hurt.”  “Keep it up, and you’ll be sleeping somewhere else tonight and maybe for the foreseeable future,” Bucky warned Sam.  “He’s so prickly when his pride is hurt,” Sam told them. “I kind of find it adorable.”  “Open the back door so I can get changed.” Bucky started to stomp off.  “Hey, you owe me money,” Clint called.  “What?” Bucky paused.  “Xavier and Lehnsherr. Last night.”  “Damn it,” Bucky cursed. “This day keeps getting better.”  Phil let the banter roll past her as she ate her oatmeal loaded with brown sugar, raisins, and a dollop of cream. Just sitting here, in her family’s lodge, surrounded by friends and people she loved, soothed her. She’d slowly been redoing the cozy cottage to fit their new life; it had been hard at first to move things from the study and change the bedrooms, but she’d managed to keep the familiar feel and some of the best memories of her brothers and father. The wide desk was still in the same spot in the loft, the old map of Coulfell on the wall beside it, but she’d added a smaller writing desk and another chair by the window. She and Clint had moved into her father’s room. The four poster bed was a family heirloom, and the new bedding and softer curtains, a change of wall color and her favorite seat from her old room in the corner, made the space feel like hers. The plan had been for Mina to be in Will and Tophe’s old room, but their little girl was brimming with the spirits of Bertie and Dwan, a trouble maker from the moment she was born with big blue gray eyes and the ability to charm anyone. So Mina was in the twins’ room, and Phil kept the two smaller beds, the illustrated drawings from their favorite adventure stories, and the big terrarium that had housed their ever changing stash of childhood treasures. An ungodly amount of toys now spilled out of the added trunk and drawers were filled with clothes Mina could get dirty in.  Will and Tophe’s room was now used by whoever was on guard duty at the time. She replaced the two beds with one and made it cozy and comfortable; its location meant Steve or Natasha or Sam or Bucky had two windows and were by the back door.  The other guards still stayed above the stable, but everyone felt safer knowing there was always someone so close by.  Her old room became the family spot; Winifred, Victoria, Daisy, Jemma … they all came along at various times. Winifred especially loved spoiling her granddaughter in every way possible; Clint continually complained about all the rules he’d had to follow growing up and how Winnie broke everyone one of them for Mina. Phil found she didn’t mind it; Winifred’s idea of spoiling was to let Mina be a normal child who dug holes in the dirt, snuck a taste of dessert first, and played in the creek.  “And how’s my grandson this morning?” Winifred asked as she poured a cup of coffee. “As active as always.” Phil rubbed a hand over her belly. “In fact, right now he’s pressing against my bladder and I have to pee again.”  “Christophe Orlando Cooper Coulson.” Clint bent down and spoke directly to the baby. “You let your mother have a day of peace.”  “Christophe Orlando Cooper Barton Coulson,” Phil corrected. “He’s got some of his daddy in him too.”  “Aye, that he does,” Winifred agreed with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m going to enjoy watching the payback for all those times Clint made me pull my hair out.”   ”’Oki!!!” Mina went dashing across the solarium, heedless of the servants setting up chairs and moving tables.  “Ah, the Little Empress.” Loki caught her before she barreled into his legs and swung her up to sit on his shoulder. “And how are you this fine day, Your Highness.”  “I played in the creek and found a stone and had a tomato sandwich. Daisy has a pretty dress and I have new ribbons,” Mina chattered. “Mama said I can have cookies and cakes and juice.” ”Indeed?” Loki smiled at Phil. “That sounds like quite a full agenda. I guess you don’t have time for my present …”  “Prezzie?” Mina leaned over, and Loki flipped her upside down then sat her back on the floor as she giggled.  “If it’s alright with your mother …” Loki waited for Phil’s response.  “Please?” Mina turned those blue-gray eyes up at her; she was already far too good at getting people to do what she wanted.  “Fine.” Phil caved.  Loki’s instant adoration for Mina wasn’t nearly as surprising as Mina’s attachment to Loki. From the moment she was born, she’d calmed at his touch and followed him everywhere as soon as she could walk. Loki, on his part, was proving his turn of character; as the Asgardian voice on Mina’s Privy Council, he’d become one of Phil’s strongest supporters. Alstair Fitz could complain all he wanted about Loki’s ulterior motives, but Phil trusted the Prince much more than the man who was still advocating for Stane to be released from prison.  “We’ll get her back in time to get dressed,” Sam promised as he and Bucky followed Loki.  “I should have expected that,” Phil said to Natasha. “He always brings her something.”  “It’s not a bad thing,” Natasha replied. “You could take some time for yourself before everything gets started.”  “Yes.” Phil smiled. “An afternoon nap does sound wonderful.”   “You look beautiful,” Phil told Daisy. “Robbie’s a lucky man.”  Standing in front of an oval mirror, Daisy’s hair was a riot of curls held back by a pearl encrusted ribbon woven through the dark brown strands. Her dress was specially made by the Sokovian seamstress, soft waves of green silk with an ornately embroidered kirtle, fine needlework of gold scrolls and curlicues. The sleeves were tied at her shoulder, elbow, and wrist, falling open between, her tattooed bracers showing on her forearms, the heavily woven protection spells that she and Wanda and Loki had devised. They all had them now, each unique to the individual; Phil’s spread down her back and over her spine, stars and heavenly bodies representing new connections and loved ones.  “Just a touch of color.” Jemma dabbed the brush along Daisy’s lips, leaving them a rosy coral. “There. Perfect!”  Somehow, the three of them had truly become sisters. Daisy and Jemma were close in age and both were off studying their arts; Phil was older, often the voice of reason and experience. But they’d managed to become closer, drawn not by blood but by their drives to make the world a better place. Daisy spent her time at the Community, as Bruce’s farm was coming to be called; once Victoria had tracked Nathaniel Essex down, Daisy unraveled Essex’s magics, finding ways to protect against them as well as make them useful without the death and darkness. That was where she’d met Roberto Reyes, a fire mage, a young man who’d lost most of his family in the war. The two were inseparable from the start; that they’d end up tying their lives together had been obvious to everyone but them. Jemma had dived into studying Stephen Stange’s type of magic with a jolly fellow by the name of Wong. Already, she and Stephen were challenging old ideas about healing. It was only a matter of time before another marriage would be taking place now that she and Trip had finally gotten themselves straightened out.  Despite Clint’s conviction that there would be more half-siblings, so far none had been uncovered. Felix had been tested as had Maria and Leo. Victoria had taken over tracking down women Harald had set his eye on with the full blessing of Nick Fury. The Spymaster was gaining a lot of knowledge from their efforts. Simmons himself had not been helpful; he’d gleefully spilled all about Nathaniel Essex, but had stopped talking about any other children he might have fathered.  The palace was a hotbed of weddings, it seemed. Phil’s own had been, by necessity, a big formal affair. The Emperor himself had stood for her, and the pews of the family chapel had been filled by royalty and nobility from all over. The ArchBishop, despite his expressed disappointment at her choice of a spouse, had performed the rites. Thankfully, she’d won the argument about the location; holding it in Triafyd would have sent the wrong message to the people of Coulfell, and Phil made clear that she was, and would continue to always be, Queen of her land with no Imperial ambitions herself.  “Is it normal to be this nervous?” Daisy asked. “I mean, I love him, but all this is just … ” “I know,” Phil told her. “I tried to get Clint to run away with me the morning of our ceremony. But here’s the thing; it’s just one moment on the way to the rest of your lives together. By tomorrow, you’ll be on the way to the lake house for a fortnight.” ”Yes.”  Daisy smiled. “Robbie’s going to love it.”  “Then let’s get you married so you can be there,” Jemma urged.   “Aw, our babies are growing up,” Tony said, glass of whiskey in his hand as he sat down next to Phil.  After the ceremony, there had been an official reception, but this was the after party for friends and family where royal titles and lineage didn’t matter. “Jemma’s next and my money’s on Bruce and Betty after that.”  “I’ll take that bet,” Phil said, sipping her tea. “But it will be Bruce and Betty, Jemma and Trip, and then Mack and Leo.”  Tony raised an eyebrow. “Do we have some inside information? I saw you and Betty earlier, the two of you practically glowing. Is she …?”  Phil just shrugged but she knew she was smiling.  “Well, good for them. With her asshole father under arrest, she and Bruce can live happily ever after,” Tony said. “You know what they’ll need? A bigger house. I know some builders who can work miracles in just a few months. Running water, that new lighting system Luke’s working on … yeah, that’s a good baby gift. I’ll get on that.”  There was no arguing with Tony about extravagant gifts and, besides, he was right. With all the new people joining the Community, they definitely needed more space, and with the Emperor’s seal of approval, its reputation was steadily growing. “What about you and Steve? When are you going to make things official?” Phil asked.  “Ha. That’s funny.” Tony’s smile fell off his face. “Every time I bring it up to the Council I hear ‘There’s never been a Stark union not blessed by the Church’ or ‘The people want someone else’.  “Excuse me, but weren’t you the one who told me to not care about that? I seem to remember a conversation about not selling out to people who didn’t have our best interests at heart?” Phil nudged her friend’s shoulder. “You were right, you know. Marrying a local boy made people understand I was committed to Coulfell’s future. And, it turns out, they also approve of love matches. Sometimes, judging by the crowds’ reaction, I’m pretty sure Clint’s more popular than me.”  “He is a loveable sort,” Tony agreed. “You and me, we were raised to hide between royal masks. Clint and Steve wear their emotions on their sleeves.” “Which begs the question: what’s stopping you?” Phil said, bluntly. “Even if the Council was onboard, we’re rarely in the same place at the same time; I’m running all over, putting out Obie’s fires. These last three days are the first I’ve been home in four months. It’s exhausting and certainly not conducive of a healthy relationship,” Tony replied. “What can I give him if I’m only available a day here and there?”  Phil looked across the room to where Steve was standing, laughing at something Sam was saying. He’d talked to her about the situation, how he felt he was the one holding things back; he might not have said it out loud, but Phil knew his commitment to his duty to protect her, Clint, and Mina kept him away from Tony for long periods of time as well.  “You know what my father would have said …if you don’t like it, change the situation.”  “Right.” Tony scoffed. “What? Stop being Lord of Starkridge? I worked too damn hard to get it back. And I sure as hell am not asking Steve to give up his position; that’s too important.”  It was telling, Phil thought, that the first option Tony voiced was his own throne.  “Who says you have to do all these trips? Can’t you send an envoy? I know you have people you trust that you could delegate some of the duties to -- Pepper Potts for one. She kept trade deals on track and ran the justicar’s duties while Stane was off doing who knows what,” Phil suggested. “And I happen to know that she’s well-loved. You should talk to Wanda about how Pepper helped the refugee community by loaning money to set up businesses.”  “She’s still taking care of all the palace end of things.” Tony thought about it. “You know, Grandda used to have a Regent who dealt with everything so he could spend time in his workshop. That just might work, and Pepper deserves it. I can give her a title too. And Happy. Yeah, Happy’s been coordinating my personal guard and the city guard.” “Peter’s going to be done with his studies soon,” Phil tossed out. “I heard that Reed Richards was thinking of offering him a position at his court.”  “Oh, hell no.” Tony shook his head. “No way Reed is poaching Parker. I have plans for him and they don’t include Mr. Incredible Brain But No Common Sense weaseling in.”  “Peter’s a born leader.” Phil’s eyes caught the movement of Peter’s hands as he talked with Shuri and Leo. “Isn’t he connected to the Stark bloodline somehow?”  “His father was a second cousin, twice removed,” Tony said. “And I know what you’re doing.”  “Is it working?”  “Yes.” Tony grinned. “Not only is it a great idea, but it will satisfy those who bitch about me not having an heir. Between Pepper, Happy, and Peter, that would free up a lot of time.”  “Enough to be one of Mina’s Privy Council of Advisors?” Phil asked.  “Me?” Tony’s surprise showed.  “Yes, you, Tony. You’re a futurist and a realist. Mina’s going to need people who see the world as it is and how it could be.”  “I can certainly do that,” he replied. “But you, my friend, are a glutton for punishment. Me and Loki and Charles and Erik in the same room, advising her about the fate of the world?” “Don’t worry. Nakia, Maria, and Betty Ross have already agreed. They’ll balance it out.”  Despite what all the healers said, Wunagan was still running the Empire, albeit a little slower and with a lot more rest, and he had thoughts about who would have a say in Mina’s minority rule when it finally came to that. He’d declared he’d be around for Cooper’s birth; surprisingly, not a whiff of Clint’s true parentage had been raised. Most believed the story that Clint reminded the Emperor of his great uncle; only their very close circle knew the truth.  “You are an evil woman.” Tony chuckled. “And I think I love you. But you and Barton are star-crossed lovers who won in the end.”  “That we are,” Phil agreed. “That we are.”  “So, I was thinking.” Phil snuggled up to Clint, resting her baby bump in the small of his back, their bodies still sweaty from making love. She pressed a kiss to the back of his neck and buried her nose in his hair.  “Ummmm.” Clint tugged the sheets up to cover them. “That’s always an interesting start to a conversation.”  “Nakia’s making port in Piste in three days; what if we jumped ship and headed East? Tony keeps talking about his island villa. Mina can play in the sand and we can have some time to ourselves before Wunagan’s birthday and our command performance at the capitol.” She stroked her hand across Clint’s chest. “We could stop in Wakanda, see T’Challa and Shuri.” ”Isn’t it Festival there soon?” Clint asked. ”It starts on the next full moon,” Phil replied. “And Okoye keeps asking when we’re bringing Mina to visit; she said something about a Dora Milaje honor guard.”  He laughed. “As always, you’ve got a plan, darlin’. I certainly won’t complain; I do miss the warmth and spicy food. Whatever you want is fine with me. I’m easy.”  Phil curled an arm around his waist and let her eyes drift closed to the image of her toes in the sand, Clint with his shirt off, and Mina running through the surf. Spending time together was one of the things she’d moved up on her priority list; all the politics and alliances and advice could wait a few days.  She’d made promises and she had every intention of keeping them.   Sunlight filled the room, the soothing wash of the surf constant in the background. A fan circled, stirring the air and creating a cool breeze. Stucco walls were lined with shelves, organized with bottles and boxes and books. Through an archway, a garden bloomed, palm trees rising above the roof, flowers scattered around the well-tended beds. Green prickly pods of Castor Beans, bright yellow Oleander, and beatific white Datura mixed with luscious green leaves of tropical shrubs.  Carefully, he added one small blue drop to a small bowl under the magnifying glass; for a second, it pooled in the middle, then the edges began to spread, the elixir slowly mixing until the whole thing turned purple. With a smile, he stirred it with a magicked silver spoon, watched it separate into red and blue then come back together.  He’d known the Imperial troops were coming for him, and, when they’d arrived, he’d offered no resistance. It had only taken five days before the first person had appeared at his cell, all supercilious and sure of themselves, wanting to talk about his research. Churchmen, Lords, Generals, Kings … so many were interested in what he could do for them that he’d had his pick of patrons. Most wanted the spell Simmons had commissioned, but he was on to new things now, a deeper understanding of how bodies worked down to the smallest level. A few, however, recognized his genius, seeing the chase for knowledge the same way he did.  “Lady Syballine called.” Piotyr sat the cup on the table by the door, the dark chicory liquid still steaming.  “She’s insistent, I’ll give her that.”  “I prefer her straightforward approach to the flowery platitudes of the likes of Alexander Pierce.” Nathaniel Essex laughed. “Or Arnim’s zealotry.”  “Indeed,” the servant agreed. “Zola has sent three more messages asking about mutation protocols. He is very eager to create more blood warriors.”  “So one note; the man has no sense of the bigger picture. The fixation on blood limits his reach.” Essex used tongs to pick up the bowl; gently he poured the contents into the prepared bottle. Runes decorated the outside of the glass, etched around the top and bottom. Only once the stopper was firmly in place and it was back in the metal holder did he p go to pick up the cup, leaving his gloves behind. “Are the new batch of volunteers ready?”  “Indeed, Sire,” Piotyr said. “Do you have a preference for this round of testing?”  “Let’s go with wasting sickness again. It will be easier to compare the outcomes,” he replied. “The last set of trials were promising. The one made it over two weeks after being cured.”   “I shall set up the safe room,” The servant nodded, “and have the fire suppressant spells renewed.”  “Excellent.” Essex sipped at his coffee; he was coming to love the dark bitter taste. “We’ll start in the morning. And send Lord Athanasios a message that the extremis spell is almost perfected; he’ll be quite pleased.”   Yes, he’d made the right decision.  Death was, after all, inevitable.