By some miracle, the sun has risen on Avaland.
My sources inform me that tensions are still running high with Castilia. However, while Illustrious Gentleman F has returned home, Lady R has elected to extend her stay in Sootham and has managed the situation with surprising deftness, vigor, and, indeed, grace. She and her former betrothed were spotted strolling the gardens outside of the Parliament building just last week. They are apparently working closely with each other on a number of economic policies, particularly in the agricultural sector, given how nicely their magic works together. I confess, “working” may be a generous term. They seem to spend half of the time bickering.
Mistress HC’s band has dispersed from the park, now that a Certain Someone has finally succumbed to pressure. The topic of reparations to the Machlish has been opened for the first time in thirty-five years. I credit this development to our Wayward Son. He has proven an ally to our cause—and has effected perhaps the most surprising political development of the Season. Our newest duchess is a divine-blooded commoner—and a Machlishwoman, at that. For now, I watch and wait to see what they will do. They seem disgustingly happy.
In the three years this column has run, I have not been able to sign off a final issue with anything resembling good news. We have a very long way to go. However, I find myself, if you’ll excuse some sentimentality, oddly hopeful. For the future, for justice, for all people living in Avaland. Until next Season, I suppose. I, for one, will pray to every Saint still watching for a quieter one.
—Lovelace
As Niamh put the last stitch in the gown, she was struck with the sinking feeling that she had forgotten something. She blinked hard, jolting back into her body. Her eyes watered against the surprising brightness of the … afternoon? When had that happened?
The Season had nearly ended, and yet, life had not at all slowed down. When she and Kit returned from their honeymoon and opened the shop on the corner of Cathedral Street and Champion, the orders started coming—and they hadn’t stopped. She’d grown far more discerning with her commissions these days, of course, but she crammed in the ones that excited her when she could. Politics took up far more of her time than she’d ever expected. Despite her work on helping reestablish a relationship with Machland, her grandmother still hadn’t come around to her “betrayal.”
With time and with change, her mother wrote in her last letter, she will.
Niamh could only hope. At least she’d agreed to get on the boat. Next month, they’d all be together again.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Your Grace,” Miriam said teasingly. She stood at the counter, reorganizing all of the things Niamh had torn apart over the course of the day. Her dark curls blazed with fine threads of copper in the sunset.
Niamh rubbed her eyes. “Has it really been that long?”
Miriam made a show of thinking. “Only three hours of complete, focused silence. Well, there was humming every now and again.”
Niamh flushed. “Oh, gods. Sorry.”
“I’ll allow it today,” Miriam said. “It’s the last order of the week.”
Thank the gods for that. She was overdue for a break—as everyone liked to remind her. It kept the hours from slipping away. Still, this gown begged to be worked on. The fabric flowed through her hands as silky and cool as water. Sinclair had commissioned it for his sister (“Absolutely no enchantments,” he told her sternly, “until you feel well enough”), and so, she needed it to be utterly perfect.
“I’m nearly ready to go,” Miriam added. “If you finish by then, we can fetch the royals together.”
“I’d love that.” There was an easy rhythm to their lives here: charitable work; strolls through the park and languid teas with Sinclair; occasional evenings in her shop; and at night, waiting for Kit and Rosa outside the Parliament building. Without her noticing, Sootham had snuck into her heart and made itself home.
The bell above the shop jingled.
“Ah,” Miriam said. “Never mind.”
When Niamh glanced up, she almost toppled out of her seat. She steadied herself on the edge of the counter. Perhaps a day would come where the sight of Kit did not make her blood quicken and every faculty of balance escape her. Today, however, was not that day.
He had his hat tucked under his arm. On the other side of the window, Rosa lurked beneath the shadow of the awning, spinning the handle of her parasol.
Miriam smiled innocently at him. “Good afternoon, Your Highness.”
He grimaced but did not correct her. He’d learned by now that Miriam had an impish streak and used his title precisely because it annoyed him. “I’ve come to collect my wife.”
“Of course, sir,” Miriam said, laughing softly at his increasingly agonized expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Niamh.”
She pulled on her pelisse and, with a wave, walked out into the afternoon. She all but skipped to Rosa and linked their arms together. Niamh watched them leave with a smile.
Through the open bow window, the smells and sounds of the city drifted in. Today, the breeze brought her the scent of horses and smog and honeysuckle. This, perhaps, was her favorite time of day. She loved the dreamy warmth of the sunlight and the rush of busyness as everyone headed home after a long day. Outside, noblemen trudged from Parliament to their clubs. Her neighbors extinguished their candles, their storefronts going dark and still. Carriages rattled down the street. When everyone retired to their country estates for the year, it would be so quiet.
For once, she looked forward to it.
As Kit approached her, the sunlight fell over him like a cloak. It was terribly unfair, how ethereal he could be when he did not even try. He set his hat down on her worktable, then pulled off his gloves.
“Your wife cannot be collected. She’s busy.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that right? Well, then. I’ll be on my way in just a moment.”
He joined her behind her worktable, and her heart rose to meet him. Kit dipped down to her level. His mouth hovered a bare inch from hers. As she leaned in to close the gap between them, he withdrew suddenly. Niamh bit down on a whine of protest.
“My apologies,” he said. “I shouldn’t distract you.”
Oh, he never played fair.
“Weeeell…” Niamh wound her fingers into his cravat. “Maybe I can be convinced to set it aside. Just for a few minutes. You’re very persuasive.”
When he finally kissed her, time slowed to a beautiful crawl. Warmth unfurled through her, as slow and dreamy as a summer afternoon. The gown slid off the table, forgotten.
Ah, well. There would be time later to finish it.
These days, she was in no hurry.