prairiesongserial

[prairiesongserial]

23.12

“Alright, listen up,” Alte said. “You can ask me to repeat the question as many times as you want, discuss it as much as you want, and you get as many cracks at it as you want. But none of the other students can tell you what to say, got it? You can’t give me someone else’s answer.”

From John and Cassidy’s conspicuous lack of protest, Val supposed this was how the rules on the other floors had been. It seemed a little harsh to make Percy take on questions meant for older students without any assistance, but the little prince had a good attitude about it all the same; he nodded at Alte with gravitas.

“Understood,” Percy said.

“I’ve been helping him with books when he needs it,” Cassidy said. “Since he only reads English.”

Alte shrugged. “That’s fine. I didn’t think two little kids would learn Hebrew overnight–no offense to them.”

“None taken,” Percy said. “May I have the question now?”

“Oh, right.” Alte cleared her throat. She stood up straighter, maybe an attempt to get a bit more into character as a floor master, and started to recite. “There’s an out of control train heading for five strangers tied up on the tracks. You’re watching it from outside, standing next to a switch that will redirect the train onto a different track. But another person, someone you know, is tied up on the other track. If you flip the switch, they’ll die instead. According to halacha, what should be done?”

“Oh, hell,” Cassidy swore, before Alte had even finished talking. “You’re still doing this one?”

“It’s a classic ethical dilemma,” Alte replied, blank-faced.

“It’s a stupid one,” Cassidy said. They were pacing now, and had taken off their jacket, twisting the fabric of it between their hands. “First of all, it’s not a situation you’d ever have to worry about in the real world–which, don’t get me wrong, I know is the point, but what are we doing here if not preparing you students to apply halacha to real world problems? And second of all–”

“They never passed their eighth-year exams, by the way,” Alte said, addressing Val.

“I left before finals, thank you very much,” Cassidy said. “Second of all, it doesn’t matter what halacha says in this case, because you’ve got the moral responsibility to save as many people as possible. Jam the wheels of the train for all I care, but figure it out.”

“The question isn’t asking what you would do,” Alte pointed out.

The two swapped to Yiddish and began to argue, Cassidy punctuating each point with spirited hand gestures. Alte remained straight-faced, hands laced behind her back, though Val could see an amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had been serious when she’d said she enjoyed disagreements the night before.

“What would you do?” John asked abruptly, turning around to face Val.

Val blinked. “Me?”

John nodded once, brusquely. “About the train.”

“I don’t know.” 

Despite how adamant Cassidy was that the problem had no basis in reality, Val wasn’t so sure that was true. The decision at the core of it–judging the value of one life against the value of many–was the same decision Johannes had made, when he’d chosen to fight Hemisphere at the barricade in Maine. He’d thrown himself and everyone else into danger because he’d gotten attached to Val, and he’d died for it.

“I think I would sacrifice one person for the sake of the five,” Val said, aloud. “That way you’re saving the most lives, aren’t you?”

John gave him an odd look.

“What?” Val asked. His throat tightened as remembered, unbidden, the parable of the shepherd carrying the lost sheep home on his shoulders. “What would you do?”

“I would save the person I knew,” John said. 

Considering everything John had been through for the sake of a single person, that made sense.

“Well, it’s not about what any of us would do personally, is it?” Percy piped up. He’d been standing in place, eyebrows furrowed in thought, though evidently also listening in on the conversation. “Personally, I would find a way to stop the train before anyone got hurt. But the question is what, according to the rabbis, should…”

He trailed off. There was a spark of realization in his eyes. Without another word, he turned on his heel and marched off into the bookshelves, clearly in search of something specific. Even Cassidy and Alte stopped bickering to watch him go; both cringed as Percy began yanking books down without any particular rhyme or reason, causing a minor avalanche in his wake.

“I’ll go help,” Cassidy said, switching to English and trotting off after the prince. “Menashe, hold your horses, you’re making a mess–”

*

The morning passed quickly. Percy and Cassidy didn’t emerge from the stacks for some time. Apparently the prince was cooking up an argument that needed very specific sources, or quite a lot of them. The other eighth-year students took a healthy interest in Gawain; John hovered nearby, stone-faced, watching the teenagers give the boy piggy-back rides and perform sleight-of-hand tricks for his entertainment.

Val, for his part, was studying the Yiddish dictionary again, his second cup of coffee going cold on the table. He glanced up briefly when Alte sat down across from him, but they stayed in companionable silence for a while before she spoke.

“You can take that with you, if you want,” she said. “We’ve got plenty.”

“Really?” Val asked.

“Sure. No one will miss it.” She took a sip of her own coffee, holding the mug in both hands.

“I don’t want to take your books.”

“It’s not taking if I’m offering. It’s a gift.” Alte looked at him sternly over the rim of the mug, a look that dared him to argue. “Don’t be Catholic about it.”

“I’m being polite,” Val protested. “I don’t think–”

“Too late. Book’s yours. You can’t give it back now.”

Val was prevented from arguing any further by Percy’s reemergence from the stacks. The prince carried with him a page of what looked like handwritten notes, and approached Alte confidently where she sat, Cassidy loping along behind him.

“I think I’ve got it,” he said.

“Okay,” Alte replied. “Tell me.”

“You don’t do anything,” Percy said. “According to the law, the correct answer is to walk away.”

Alte arched her eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Percy said, and sat down next to her with his notes. “At first I thought, ‘thou shalt not kill’ being one of the major commandments, you ought to try and save as many people as possible. But Cassidy argued with you because that wasn’t the answer you were looking for–even if it is the morally responsible thing. Which made me think, how much killing are you really responsible for in this situation?”

“But you’re still a bystander,” Alte prodded him. “Aren’t you complicit if you’re watching without doing anything?”

“No,” Percy said. “I think you’re only complicit if you’re making the choice between who lives and who dies. Oholot tells us that one must not set aside one person’s life for another, and, er…” He paused to squint at his notes. “Pesachim relates a story about a man who was told to kill or be killed, but was told by Rava that it was preferable to be killed in that situation. Rava asks him, ‘why do you think your blood is redder than another’s?’”

“And because of this, you should walk away?” Alte asked.

“Yes, I think so.” Percy nodded. “The Foundations of the Torah also tells us that if a group is told to hand over one member or be killed, it’s preferable for everyone to be killed than to hand over that one person. Which isn’t exactly the same case, but it’s a bit comparable, isn’t it? So I think, in the situation of your train problem, you violate the law the moment you touch the switch.”

Alte set her coffee cup down and stood up, looking down contemplatively at Percy. Val was afraid for a brief moment that she was going to tell the boy he’d failed–the solution he’d come up with did seem crazy, even if he had the sources to back it up. Then, Alte smiled, and offered the prince a hand up from his seat.

“Well done, Menashe,” she said. “Pass.”

“I don’t agree with it,” Percy said, taking her hand and standing. “I feel as though I should say. I agree with Cassidy that you ought to save as many as possible. But you saying that it was about the law, not what Cassidy thinks, was a good hint.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Alte said, smiling. “I don’t give hints.”

Percy nodded solemnly. “Of course not.”

“Well, now that that’s done,” Cassidy said, clapping Percy on the back, “we should get going. Not that it hasn’t been a great little visit, but let’s finally have the conversation we came here for, hey?”

Val blinked, nodded, and got up. He’d almost forgotten there was an end to all the time they’d already spent in the tower, an end that was now one floor above them. He caught John’s eye from across the room and saw that they were both thinking the same thing–the faster they got this over with, the faster they could get back on the road to meet up with Cody and Friday in Italy.

“Come and visit me in England when you graduate,” Cassidy said to the eighth-years, scooping Gawain up off the floor and tucking the boy under one arm–Gawain squealed happily, already riled up from all the attention from the students. “I’ll show you my boat.”

“You have a boat?” Roza asked, incredulous.

Cassidy laughed, and declined to elaborate. Instead, they toted Gawain over towards the stairwell, putting a hand on Percy’s back to steer him there as well. John followed them closely, wearing his usual neutral expression, hands tucked in his pockets.

Something nudged Val’s elbow; it was Alte, putting the Yiddish dictionary into his hands. He shot her a look, and she smiled with a shrug.

“I told you,” she said. “It’s a gift. Use it in good health.”

He nearly argued with her again, then thought better of it, and closed his hands around the book.

“Thank you,” he said, and hurried to meet everyone else at the door.

23.11 || 23.13

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.11

Cassidy awoke to the sound of spirited arguing. Percy and the floor master had picked up where they’d left off the night before without so much as waiting for the sun to finish rising–Cassidy couldn’t blame the little prince for being impatient, but it might have been nice to have breakfast before the philosophical arguments resumed.

Cassidy opened their eyes, and jumped at the sight of Gawain standing over their chair, staring down at them. The little prince was bleary-eyed, and his hair was sticking up on one side; he clearly hadn’t been up for more than a couple of minutes.

“You’re awake,” Gawain said.

“Well, I am now,” Cassidy muttered, and yawned. “Let me guess, John told you to keep an eye on me.”

Gawain nodded. Cassidy swept their gaze over the room and spotted John hovering near Percy and the floor master. John nodded at them; Cassidy, powering bravely through the crick in their neck, nodded back.

“Alright. May as well start the day.” They got to their feet and folded the blanket they’d been sleeping under, leaving it in a neat pile on the seat of the chair. Once their hands were free, they offered one to Gawain. “Let’s see if your brother can argue us upstairs, nu? Third time could be the charm.”

Gawain took their hand; the two of them walked as a unit to Percy, John, and the floor master, the latter of whom looked especially browbeaten. Cassidy couldn’t blame the boy. Nobody really wanted to be woken up and thrust straight into Talmudic debate. 

“Fine,” the floor master said finally, after another few minutes of Percy heatedly pointing at the books he’d laid out on the table. Without Cassidy to translate, they were both speaking in English; Cassidy was glad to see the kids on the upper floors still had a decent grasp of it. “Alright. Pass. You pass.”

Percy paused mid-sentence and blinked. “Oh. Really?”

“You’ve clearly done your reading,” the floor master said. “I was impressed by the reference to the Oven of Akhnai. And I want to eat before Shacharit.”

“Oh, right,” Cassidy said. “Boys, let’s stop bothering the nice floor master and head up. We’ll have to wait a bit for you to test, but you’ll have lots of time for breakfast.”

Satisfied, or at least wanting to be free of the conversation, the floor master departed. Cassidy let go of Gawain’s hand, confident that he would cling onto John at the earliest opportunity, and pressed on towards the door for the staircase. When they turned to wave the others through, they were met only with questioning looks.

“Everyone’s headed to morning prayer,” Cassidy said. “With the eighth-years, it’ll only be an hour, tops. They’re speedy. As should we all be.”

They gestured towards the door, pointedly. Percy and Gawain seemed to take the hint. The latter tugged John along with him, and the group began to ascend the stairs together.

*

Cassidy was right–the eighth-years had cleared out, and there was no one to fight over the breakfast spread. Well, almost no one. Val was seated at the otherwise empty table with a cup of coffee and a book in front of him, brows furrowed, muttering to himself. It was such an unexpected sight that Cassidy laughed aloud and startled him into looking up.

“You’re here,” Val said, sounding lightly surprised. “Have you been up all night?”

“We slept,” John said. He waited for Percy and Gawain to sit down at the table, then sat between them.

“How’d you get up here?” Cassidy asked. They passed behind Val under the guise of grabbing a pitcher of water from the far end of the table, trying to get a look at what he was reading. It was a Yiddish-English dictionary.

“I fell asleep downstairs, and one of the eighth-years brought me up for dinner,” Val said. He closed the book and set it aside. He had dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept well. “They all just went to pray.”

“Figured,” Cassidy said, and sat at the head of the table.

The breakfast spread had clearly already been picked over, but there was more than enough left for five people. There was bread and fresh fruit, pickled herring, potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, blintzes, and even smoked salmon. The princes went at it ravenously, following Cassidy’s example and taking a little bit of everything. John and Val were a little more cautious, picking mostly at the foods Cassidy assumed they knew well. Still, John didn’t protest when Cassidy snuck half of a blintz onto his plate; he chewed it thoughtfully, then took another whole one for himself.

Cassidy was talking Percy through the assembly of herring, onion, and dill onto a piece of bread when the eighth-years returned from morning prayer. There were fewer of them than Cassidy had anticipated. The classes in the tower tended to thin out as they got farther up in years; as the kids got older kids, more of them made the same decision Cassidy had when he’d been seventeen: to leave and make their name somewhere else. But this crop of eighth-years, who would have only been first-years the last time Cassidy had been here, was unusually small. There couldn’t have been more than ten of them.

“The goyim multiplied,” one of the teenagers remarked. “I thought the rest of them were stuck on the seventh floor.”

“Just needed to sleep on it,” Cassidy replied in Yiddish. “I look goyische to you now? I’m offended.”

The eighth-years peered at them. Cassidy studied the eighth-years back in return, trying to put names to faces. Cassidy had a good memory for people, but it was hard when seven years had gone by and matured the kids they’d known into teenagers on the verge of adulthood.

“Cassidy Caplan?” the girl leading the group asked.

“The very same,” Cassidy said. “And don’t tell me, you’re…surely not little Alte.”

“I had a growth spurt,” she said, smiling wryly.

“What about me?” one of the other students piped up from the back of the group. “Do you remember me?”

Cassidy squinted. “Is that Roza I see? The Roza who almost broke her foot dropping a sword on it?”

“And me?” the student next to Roza asked.

“No, do me first,” another said.

The group erupted into a frenzy. Everyone wanted to know what Cassidy remembered about them, wanted to tell Cassidy what they were studying, wanted to ask what Cassidy had been up to since leaving the tower. Cassidy fielded the questions gamely. They couldn’t pretend they weren’t pleased at being surrounded by kids who still looked up to them a little, and at finding they’d all turned into spirited young adults.

It wasn’t long before Cassidy had heard from each student, and attempted to name them all. They wanted to ask questions in return, to see where the rest of the class had run off to, but the free-flowing stream of cross talk was abruptly cut off by a long, shrill noise; Alte had stuck her pinkies in her mouth and whistled to shut everyone up.

“That was good,” Cassidy said, mildly impressed. “Did I teach you that?”

“Learned it myself,” she said, wiping her hands on her sweater. She’d switched to English, probably for the benefit of the other guests. “Floor master trick.”

Cassidy’s eyebrows crept up. “Little Alte, a floor master? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Wait,” Val said. He’d been quietly nursing his coffee, the dictionary once again open in front of him, but now looked up sharply at Alte. “You’re the floor master?”

She stared back at him. “I thought I told you that.”

“No, you didn’t,” Val said. “You let me up the back staircase, even though you’re the floor master?”

“You snuck a Christian in through the back stairs?” Cassidy asked, unable to hide the sheer delight in their voice. “Does the rabbi know?”

“No way,” Roza said. “Do you know how much trouble we’d be in?”

For a moment–only a brief one–Cassidy considered blackmailing the princes’ way up to the next floor. But it wouldn’t have been fair. Especially when Percy had gotten this far with only a little bit of nudging in the right direction.

“Alright,” Cassidy said, and gestured to the princes. “This is Menashe and Ephraim, they’re testing their way up the tower, you probably know the situation by now. Give us what you’ve got, Alte.”

“You’re not going to try and test for them?” Alte asked.

“I’ll help translate sources if I need to,” Cassidy said with a shrug. “I was under the impression I’m no longer allowed to speak for the boys. Especially since you’ve all gotten so fluent in English.”

Alte nodded. Apparently this was what she’d wanted to hear.

“Okay, Ephraim, Menashe,” she said, then seemed to really consider what she’d said, and looked to Cassidy. “Those can’t be their actual names. Did you give them fake names?”

“Their parents were a little heavy-handed,” Cassidy said gravely.

Alte narrowed her eyes at them. Cassidy shrugged again in return, not willing to give up the ghost. The boys had been good at responding to their new names so far–it would be a shame to blow it now.

“Those are their names,” John said, speaking up for the first time since the eighth-years had arrived. “What’s wrong with them?”

He was looking to Cassidy, and there was a silent accusation in his gaze, like maybe they’d tricked the boys into taking on names that were inappropriate. Cassidy raised their hands, palm-out, in surrender.

“There’s nothing wrong with them!”

“They’re very…biblical,” Alte said. “They’re the two sons of Joseph, who we name in a blessing over children.”

John accepted this answer with a low humming noise in his throat, and returned to finishing his second helping of breakfast. The heat was off Cassidy, for the moment.

“Boys,” Alte said, once more addressing the princes. “Are you ready for your last test?”

Percy shifted uncertainly in his seat. He didn’t look ready. The last floor had taken him three tries after all; who was to say this one wouldn’t take even longer, or prove impossible? Cassidy doubted Alte would go too easy on him, but hopefully the question would be something Percy could actually find an answer to without all the knowledge of an eighth-year student. Maybe the students would even look the other way if Cassidy pointed the boy in the right direction.

“I suppose I have to be,” Percy said at last, and got to his feet. “Yes, alright. Give me the question.”

23.10 || 23.12

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.10

John watched Percy comb through the dense text, looking for mention of ‘Isaac.’ The boy had admirable focus. Soon the students broke away for dinner, leaving Percy the only one still at work. Even Cassidy had gone to eat with the students.

The sound of Percy turning the thin pages was as steady as the beat of a song. Thirty minutes later, Cassidy reappeared with food for all of them; Percy’s focus didn’t break from the page, even as he pulled apart bread and stuffed pieces into his mouth.

“Menashe, pass me an apple slice,” Cassidy said.

“Huh?” was Percy’s delayed response.

“Pass me an apple slice.”

“They’re closer to you, though,” Percy said, confused.

“What bad manners. Aren’t you supposed to be a prince?”

Percy swallowed back whatever rude answer came to mind. He turned away from the book for just long enough to lean across the table, pick up an apple slice, and put it on Cassidy’s plate. In that second of distraction, Cassidy flipped forward in the book without Percy noticing. When Percy settled back down over the page, still pulling a face, he didn’t seem to notice the change.

“Oh, I’ve got it,” he said. “Here is an ‘Isaac’--I suppose this is the binding business.”

Gawain also became momentarily excited, before he realized that it was just more reading. He settled back next to John, leaning against his side. The warm weight reminded John of H.D., the German Shepherd from the circus.

“I’m bored,” Gawain sighed. “Can’t we play something?”

“No,” said John.

Gawain wilted forward until his forehead was down on the table.

“Well, that is curious,” said Percy. “I really have no idea what any of this has to do with the new year. Mr. John, shall I read it to you?” John nodded, and he did. It was a disturbing story. God told a man to take his son up a mountain and kill him. The man almost did. An angel told him never mind, so he stopped.

“I’m having a blasted time with this question,” Percy said once he’d finished reciting. “What do you think?”

John thought the man in the story shouldn’t listen to strange voices. Gawain had dozed off against his side. When John had been a little younger than him, someone had sold him into an indenture, but at least they’d only done it because they were going to starve.

John shrugged.

“It’s a bit sloppy,” Percy sighed, “an angel intervening to give the opposite order. I’m inclined to think Abraham wasn’t supposed to listen to the voice of God at the beginning. Or is he meant to listen every time on faith that subsequent orders will clarify or contradict the former? God, what a puzzle.”

“Was he supposed to have done the right thing?” John asked.

Across the table from him, Cassidy’s face broke into a grin.

“Allegorical tales ought to explain themselves,” Percy complained. “I suppose the difficulty is meant to be the point. This whole tower is a monument to the virtue of debate and study; room for interpretation requires one to grapple with the philosophy.”

Percy struggled for a while longer. Nearly two hours had gone by before he felt confident enough to give his answer to Moshe.

“Here is what I think,” Percy announced, hands folded behind his back. Cassidy translated for him. “This particular passage is read at the yearly coronation of God–a moment at which one reasonably is meant to assert the absolute subjugation of humanity to higher authority–as a cautionary tale against locking onesself in a tower.”

Cassidy faltered in their translation, and spoke hastily in order to catch up. Percy continued:

“Abraham’s unquestioning devotion to God as king leads him to the brink of catastrophe–killing one’s own child is the most heartless crime one can commit. What sort of subject nods agreeably to his king and raises the knife to slaughter his child? Not a subject, but a slave. Not a proper human being, either, but a detached scholar, whose favorite child is theology.” Percy took a breath. “Therefore, I suggest that this tale is read at the new year as a caveat to the coronation; God is king, but a human being ought to revolt here and there.”

Moshe smiled slightly when Percy had finished.

“No outside citations?” he asked.

Percy continued to stand with his arms formally behind his back.

“I plead illiteracy,” he said. “Apologies for the home-grown philosophy.”

Moshe nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “Pass.”

The exam had attracted a small crowd of students who wanted to delay going back to their studies after dinner. They made an uproar as Moshe took out the key to let Percy, Gawain, Cassidy, and John up to the next floor. Gawain had slept through Percy’s speech; carefully, John lifted him from the bench and carried him to the door. 

Cassidy said something to Moshe that had the boy pushing them bodily through the open door. Percy followed after, then John with Gawain.

“You did great,” Cassidy said, ruffling Percy’s hair as they climbed the steps. “A man after my own heart; I have a midrash you should read, it’s a great piece that puts Hagar in contrast with Abraham…”

The following floors took all night. After the initial surprise of the first two floor masters, the others had apparently gotten organized. John didn’t like their common decision. Each floor insisted that Percy had to test for all of them rather than Cassidy. It didn’t make much sense to John. Cassidy explained that the kids would probably all be in trouble with the rabbi later, but since Percy had managed to pass the second floor as a non-Jew without any background in the language or philosophy, now the other floor masters were curious to see how far he’d make it.

“If Percy is allowed to represent all of us, you should be, too.”

“Yes,” Cassidy said. They talked over Percy’s bent head. It was nearly midnight, and he was studying the Tanakh yet again. “You weren’t privy to all the nasty things I’ve been saying about these brats’ mothers, but they won’t budge. We could sneak up through the back stair, obviously, but I don’t like that idea, even as a last resort. Some things shouldn’t be violated.”

John was almost too tired to recognize the fleeting scrap of sincerity, but he did catch it before it was buried under more bullshit. Cassidy chattered on, Gawain slept on, and Percy studied on.

Percy had to give up on the seventh floor. The floor master failed him twice, he burst into hysterical laughter, and he stalked off into the bookshelves. John carried Gawain over to check on him, and found Percy asleep on the floor. That settled it. John lay Gawain down next to his brother and went back over to Cassidy.

“Asleep,” John said.

“Good idea,” Cassidy said. They groaned as they got up from the bench, their back popping. “I’ll ask around for some blankets, go ahead and join them.”

“Adults and children should sleep separately,” John said.

“Sure, in ideal circumstances, when the moon is full, no one wants children underfoot,” Cassidy said. “But John, I thought you’d turned me down.”

It was nearing four in the morning and John’s patience had frayed to nothing. Without acknowledging Cassidy had said anything, John set himself up in the middle of the study area, behind the table where Percy’s books were still sitting open. There was an armchair and ottoman, which he claimed. Cassidy wandered off, and returned a few minutes later with their arms full of bedding. John closed his eyes.

John opened his eyes at the sound of Cassidy sitting down on the floor beside him. There was another chair on the other side of the room they could have used. John was suddenly plenty awake. He sat upright.

“Oh, you’re still up,” Cassidy said. They stretched with their arms over their head, catlike. “You know…I really can’t pin you down. You like to wave a knife around, you don’t like jokes, you don’t like stories, but you love kids. Is it all kids, or just these ones?” John’s horror must have been written on his face, because they said, “Ooh, that’s a scary look. Really, though. I didn’t think you were ever gonna put Gawain down. Do you have kids running around somewhere? Give me something, John, one personal detail.”

John grit his teeth. He lay back in the chair and turned his face away. He wouldn’t be able to sleep with Cassidy there. He’d be listening out all night. Annoying.

“I’m surprised you’re letting them out of your sight. You’re so protective. You and Gawain are two matching knights-errant.”

“I am protecting them,” John said. They were safe here. He was protecting Percy and Gawain from the uncertainty he’d felt a hundred times when the older boys working temporarily during the harvest sat next to him or followed him to the stream. Why make the boys wonder when they could be sure?

“Cause you love kids.”

“I don’t,” John said. “They have nothing to do with me.”

“Please, John, let me find something cute about you.”

John turned his head back to look at them.

“I liked Percy’s answer. On the second floor,” he said. “I wouldn’t have answered like that.”

“Yeah?” said Cassidy.

“He has faith in people,” John said.

“So, how would you have answered? Binding of Isaac and Rosh Hashanah, what’s the link?”

“The angel comes down and stops him,” John said. “It’s a warning. God is watching. Good way to start the new year.”

Cassidy’s smile faltered, but only slightly.

“Do you relate to Abraham?” Cassidy asked. They mimed stabbing down with a knife. John supposed they would think of him that way. It had been just about twenty-four hours ago that John had descended, exhausted, onto their boat and put a knife to them. Then their expression changed, their eyes a little too piercing. “Or Isaac?”

“Anyone can be anyone,” John snapped. “Go to bed. Over there.”

John felt relieved, and surprised, when they listened to him.

“Night, John,” they said, and settled into the chair on the other side of the library.

23.9 || 23.11

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.9

True to her word, Alte had found Val fresh bandages for his neck. He’d applied them and then collapsed into a threadbare armchair, legs still burning from the strain of climbing eight flights of stairs. He had to wonder how John was holding up–but John had also been the one to insist on staying with the princes, so he’d really sealed his own fate.

There were less than ten students on this level of the tower, all of them somewhere between eighteen and twenty, but they ate dinner at the volume of a class four times the size and half the age, sitting around a long table cluttered with books. They stole food from each others’ plates and debated loudly in a mix of languages including English and Yiddish, jabbing forks in each others’ directions, occasionally rifling through papers to find a quote or piece of evidence. It reminded Val a bit of how he and Valentine had sometimes snuck meals up into the convent’s bell tower to get drunk and argue theology.

“Val, you said you used to be a priest, right?” Alte called to him, breaking off in the middle of a conversation she was having with another girl.

Val blinked, surprised to be called on. “Uh–yes. I was.”

The attention of the eighth-years immediately transferred to him. The room went quiet as they all swiveled their heads. Val felt his face begin to grow hot, and looked up at the ceiling, bracing for the questions he knew were coming next.

“Why’d you quit?” The girl Alte had been talking to asked.

“I didn’t,” Val said. He’d expected talking about it to feel like prodding an infected tooth, but it felt a little easier than it had before. Maybe because he’d finally talked it over with Friday. “I was…told to stop being one. By the Mother Superior at the convent where I grew up.”

This excited the eighth-years, who all began talking over each other.

“One at a time, one at a time,” Alte demanded, waving her arms. “And in English.”

There was grumbling, but the others settled down. Val was learning, slowly, that Alte was the ringleader of this group–or, at least, she commanded enough respect that she could tell them what to do and actually be listened to.

“Why did she tell you to stop being a priest?” a student at the far end of the table wanted to know. “Were you bad at it?”

“I don’t think so,” Val said, refusing to give himself enough time to mull over the question. Friday had been angry at him when he’d brought that exact question up on the train; she’d no doubt still be angry if she found out he was still seriously considering it.

“She told me it wasn’t my calling,” he added, sensing another clamor for information about to begin. “That’s all.”

“Did she say why?” the same student asked.

Val frowned. “Not really, but–”

“Then what does it matter what she thinks?”

Val shut his mouth. It was the same thing Friday had told him, more or less. But it was also an easy conclusion to make when you hadn’t been raised from infancy by the Mother Superior and the other nuns of the convent. When you hadn’t spent your entire childhood and teenage years being brought up for a singular, specific purpose that apparently you were no longer suited to perform.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “It’s like–it’s like if you finished your studies here, and the rabbi at the top told you that he’d failed teaching you anything, and to just give up and do something else with your life.”

“He does do that,” Alte said, through a mouthful of chicken wing.

A murmur of affirmation went around the table.

“What?” Val asked.

“Most of us have failed the final exam once already,” Alte said. She gestured with her thumb at the other girl she’d been talking to. “Roza’s going on a third. You should see the notes he wrote on my thesis about murder in Shoftim.”

Val sat up a little straighter in his seat. “And you’re all still here?”

“Learning to disagree is part of why we’re here,” Alte said, a little wryly. “The old rabbis even used to say God was wrong, sometimes. Even when they were getting signs and wonders and the whole tsimmes. What’s the point in a teacher if you can’t debate with them?”

“Alte’s coming for the old man’s job,” a boy at her elbow muttered. 

She elbowed him. “Well? Aren’t I right?”

“That’s not how I was taught,” Val said. He’d debated theology with Valentine and the novitiates, but he would never have questioned Mother Superior.

“I know,” Alte said, in the same tone of voice she’d used to call him Catholic earlier.

The conversation fell into a momentary lull. Roza, the girl next to Alte, looked like she was about to burst with whatever question she wanted to ask–she shifted in place for a moment, then blurted out, “Do you still believe in God?”

“Of course,” Val said, automatically. Were he and God on good terms? Well, that was another question entirely. One he didn’t really see the point in debating with a bunch of teenagers. Or in thinking about until he got to Rome, really.

“You can’t just ask a guest if he believes in God,” the student at the far end of the table said.

“Eli, you asked me this morning at breakfast if I thought God existed,” Roza snapped back at them, gesturing at them with her fork.

The student–Eli–shrugged. “There were no more challah rolls. I was feeling abandoned by a higher power.”

“You said you traveled with people who spoke Yiddish,” Alte said to Val. “Did you pick up anything?”

“A few words,” Val said, grateful for the attempt to redirect the conversation. “Uh, goyische I know. And schmuck, and tsimmes. And, uh, ketsele.”

Alte’s eyebrows shot up towards her hairline. The eighth-years broke into giggles.

“What?” Val asked.

“That’s just…” Alte trailed off, and swallowed her bite of food. “An interesting one.”

“I don’t know what it means,” Val said. Johannes had never told him, and he’d never been able to figure it out through context clues alone.

Alte cleared her throat, apparently unwilling to say. 

“It means kitten,” Roza supplied, loudly. “Like a little cat?”

Val choked on air.

23.8 || 23.10

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.8

Sara’le had warned Cassidy when she’d unlocked the door to the second floor that the other floor masters wouldn’t go easy on them. So Cassidy had decided to pull out all the stops. The next question was simple, appropriate for kids who hadn’t even had their b’nei mitzvot, and just so happened to pertain to a topic on which Cassidy considered themself an expert. Surrounded by stunned twelve year olds, Cassidy leapt straight into a presentation similar to their fifth year thesis on the binding of Isaac, delivered to a boring looking child named Moshe.

Cassidy had never gotten along with their floor masters growing up; the role attracted a type that they had never meshed with. Moshe, unmoved by Cassidy’s inspired interpretation of Vayera 23:8, pushed his glasses up his nose and told Cassidy they could proceed to the next floor.

“Thank you, Moshe. You’ve been a great audience.” He switched to English. “John, children…” 

“But,” Moshe said, “Those three still have to test.”

And now Cassidy knew what Sara’le had meant.

“What’s that now?” they asked. “Surely you don’t mean that these goyim should be held to the same standard as a Jew? They’re disadvantaged, have pity. ‘Defend the poor and the orphan; deal justly with the poor and the destitute,’ eh, Moshele?” Moshe stared back at Cassidy without moving even one muscle on his face. “Moshe, Moshe, you’re young, so it probably only slipped your mind for a second–what is written in Gittin 61a?”

“Give sustenance to the poor of the non-Jews along with the poor of Israel,” said Moshe.

“Precisely–”

“They can eat with us before they test. There are still several days left in finals week.”

Cassidy was momentarily at a loss for words.

“Moshele, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I think that would be inappropriate,” said Moshe. “And please don’t call me Moshele.”

“Okay, I won’t call you Moshele. You really won’t let me take them with me? These kids have to see the rabbi as soon as possible–it’s really a life or death emergency.”

Moshe surveyed Percy and Gawain–or rather, Menashe and Ephraim–coolly. The kids had gone back to muddling through introductions. That Menashe was quick with languages and was managing all right with ‘vi heyst du.’ The kids on this floor were more curious than scared, and they clamored over each other trying to teach the poor English children how to talk.

“I see. In that case…” said Moshe. “Gittin 61a also says: ‘Bury the dead of the non-Jews along with the dead of Israel.’”

Cassidy blinked at him.

“Was that a joke?”

Moshe stared back at Cassidy.

“What a dark sense of humor Moshele has…” Cassidy scolded. They clicked their tongue. “How are you even going to test them? Look at them, they can hardly say their own names.”

“I’ll show you,” Moshe asked. “Bring them over.”

Moshe walked across the room. He opened a closet and reached into the dark for a chain, which he pulled to illuminate the single bulb dangling overhead. Cassidy remembered, of course, what this was. The interfloor communication system had been something they had regularly abused for pranks. A series of pipes allowed you to speak to people on the other floors; a corresponding pulley would ring a bell in order to prompt someone on the target floor to uncover the correct pipe.

Moshe pulled the rope that would ring a bell up on the tenth floor, where the oldest students lived. He uncovered the corresponding pipe and waited for acknowledgement.

“Yeah?” said a tired voice.

“Three outsiders want to test, but they only know English.”

“Huh? English? Don’t they at least know a little Hebrew?”

Moshe looked to Cassidy, who shook their head.

“No, just English.”

“Let them study harder and test next year. What kind of outsiders want to show up and test… aren’t you Moshele on the second floor? Where did you find these people?”

“Sarah sent them up,” Moshe said, his cheeks turning pink. “And they have the right to test if they want to. You just don’t want to wake Alte.”

There was a sustained silence on the other end.

“It’s not that I don’t want to wake Alte…” the voice said, but trailed off without coming up with a compelling excuse. “Hold on.”

They waited. After a minute, Moshe again told Cassidy to bring everyone over. Cassidy glanced over their shoulder. It seemed a shame to interrupt; the kids were getting on very well. 

“She’s not here,” the kid on the tenth floor said. “She went down to the kitchen. Tell the outsiders to wait until tomorrow.”

“I know more than one of you brats study English,” Cassidy interjected. “You just don’t feel like it.” There was the distinct sound as the metal lid of the pipe on the tenth floor slammed closed. It echoed down to them. “Moshe, just let me translate. I won’t give them hints.”

Moshe glared at the still-open end of the pipe. He closed his side more gently, but Cassidy recognized the temptation for revenge. The bell pulley was right there, after all. There was a reason all this was kept in a closet away from the kids.

“Alright,” said Moshe. “Their question is the same as yours.”

*

“Why is the story of the binding of Isaac read on Rosh Hashanah?” Menashe said. “Cassidy, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“They have no idea what that means,” Cassidy reported back to Moshe.

“Then they cannot progress to the next floor.”

Cassidy swore under their breath in colorful English. They stopped when they saw John had put his hands over Ephraim’s ears.

“You–” Cassidy said, choosing a random kid to pick on. “Help them find an English translation of the Tanakh.”

The kid Cassidy had addressed gave them a withering glare.

“It’s inappropriate to bring goyische outsiders here,” the kid said. “They already passed one floor. They can study for next year like the rest of us.”

“Ugh,” said Cassidy. Why was this year’s second floor class like this? If every floor was this strict, they were pretty sure the princes wouldn’t get past floor six before the end of finals week.

Cassidy went around the shelves of the second floor library themself, until they found a small collection of world literature. Right next to Shakespeare was an English language Tanakh. They hesitated, then brought down a Yiddish-English dictionary, too. 

“Alright, here,” Cassidy said, plopping the two books down in front of John. “Good luck, teacher.”

John slid the books over to Menashe.

“I can’t read,” John said. “You’ll have to do it.”

The little prince looked up at John with horrible recognition of the situation, then looked back at Cassidy.

“Can I at least tell him where to look?” Cassidy asked Moshe. “Or what ‘Rosh Hashanah’ is? All the kids here knew that since they were old enough to think in words; it’s not something they studied.”

Moshe watched Menashe flip through the first few pages of Genesis. When it became clear no help was coming for him, the prince had put his head down and got to it. His eyes raked the pages for keywords.

“You can tell him this: ‘Rosh Hashanah’ is the yearly celebration of God’s coronation, which marks the beginning of the new year.”

Cassidy winced. ‘God’s coronation’ was going to throw the little English monarch off.

“And if he passes, I’ll pass them all,” Moshe added quietly.

So Moshele had also understood that John didn’t read–Cassidy supposed that interaction would have been hard to misinterpret.

Soon the yeshiva students broke from their studies for dinner, which the older students helped prepare and serve on a rotation. The kids were much more kid-like over a meal; Cassidy supposed it had been like that back when they were studying for their b’nei mitzvah, too. Twelve year olds had a lot of concerns.

Cassidy ate with the second-years. They asked the kids tricky theological questions in order to see them get flustered, then turned on a dime and asked for town drama: arranged marriages, fallings out, stolen chickens, that kind of thing. The poor things didn’t stand a chance; it wasn’t thirty minutes before Cassidy had caused absolute havoc. Eventually Moshe threw Cassidy out of the dining room.

“It’s like eating with the evil eye,” he complained. He shoved a tray into Cassidy’s hands. “Bring this to your friends.”

Cassidy accepted the tray. It was heavy with food–challah, braised carrots and potatoes, chicken, plus apple slices in advance of the new year–more than enough for John, Menashe, and Ephraim.

“Thank you, Moshele. I’ll tell Sara’le that you took pity on us,” Cassidy teased. Moshe’s cheeks turned bright red.

“Why would you tell Sarah anything?” he grumbled. “Worry about passing your exams.”

23.7 || 23.9

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.7

It wasn’t that Val had wanted to stay on the first floor of the tower; he just hadn’t understood what was happening until Cassidy was halfway up the stairs with the princes and it was too late to protest. He still only had the most basic grasp on what Cassidy and the schoolchildren had been arguing about, but he knew he’d been volunteered to stay behind. Which was fine by Val–he still hadn’t gotten to rest since yesterday. Let John do all of the stair climbing and interacting with whatever a “floor master” was.

Dismayingly, there was nowhere to sit down or rest on the first floor landing. It was more of a lobby area, with the staircase that led up to the second floor landing and a hallway that led deeper into the tower. There was probably a kitchen somewhere back there, and a dining hall where the children could eat meals together. Bedrooms, too, unless each floor had its own set of dormitories. It all vaguely reminded Val of the convent, if the convent had been stacked into a vertical space rather than spread out over acres of land.

Several of the schoolchildren were still gathered at the second floor railing, blinking owlishly down at Val. Val understood–any excuse to abandon their studies was a good one, and strangers showing up to the tower was particularly interesting. He was beginning to get the idea that these children were cloistered like the novitiates in New Orleans were, but didn’t have the vocabulary to confirm it.

“I guess none of you speak English,” he said aloud, on the off-chance that any of the children did. He doubted it. None of them had spoken up to help translate since Val, John, and the princes had walked through the door.

The schoolchildren talked amongst themselves for a moment.

“Redstu yidish?” one of them returned.

Val sensed that his own question was being turned back on him. He understood a few words in Yiddish that he’d gleaned from Johannes, but nothing that felt especially useful right now. He shook his head.

“Daytsh?” The same voice asked.

Val shook his head again. He was beginning to understand Cassidy’s frustration with the fact that neither he nor John could speak any of the local languages.

The schoolchildren were murmuring amongst themselves, still. Some broke off from the group at the railing and disappeared beyond the bookshelves, apparently eager to get back to their studies. Or bored with the stranger who only spoke English. Maybe both, in some cases.

Val sat on a step at the bottom of the staircase, legs splayed out in front of him. He’d seen the commotion when John had tried to ascend to the second floor with Cassidy; he had no desire to cause another stir, or make the children think he intended to challenge the floor master. Instead, he tipped his head back and stared towards the ceiling, wondering to himself exactly how many floors the princes were going to have to walk up before they were allowed to plead their case for staying here. Hopefully Cassidy was breezing through the tests. They’d seemed to know what they were doing, in any case.

The lights in the tower were dim, mostly flickering oil lamps mounted to the walls. Still, Val closed his eyes against them and, without really meaning to, fell asleep.

*

Something nudged him in the ribs. Children were tittering and laughing very close to his ears. Val groaned–he was unsurprised to find his throat dry and scratchy from snoring–and opened his eyes.

There was a girl standing across from him. Older than the other children he’d seen so far; maybe sixteen or seventeen. She was dressed in an oversized sweater and dark pants, eating an apple, and regarding Val through half-lidded eyes as a stream of younger children flowed around and past him on the steps. Val stared back at her, still not entirely awake.

“Gutn morgn,” the girl said, deadpan. Val could guess what it meant, and felt horror begin to creep over him.

“Did I sleep here all night?” he asked. Then his memory caught up to him–she probably couldn’t understand what he’d asked. “Uh. Wait–”

The girl flapped a hand at him before he could say more. “No Yiddish. I know. You’ve been asleep for an hour, maybe.”

“You speak English?” Val asked.

“Best in my class,” the girl said. Her short hair was flat on one side and sticking straight up on the other, like she’d also been asleep and hadn’t had time to fix it. “The first-years wanted me to tell you that you’re in the way. And that it’s dinnertime.”

The children stampeding around him on the stairs suddenly made sense. They had mostly filed out by now, and Val took advantage of the regained personal space to slowly rise to his feet, using the bannister for balance. He winced as something in his spine popped, stomach arms wriggling against their hidden sheathe inside his shirt as pain radiated up his lower back. Evidently, he was getting too old to fall asleep sitting up.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. He probably needed to eat something, but he wouldn’t have felt right doing it without John and the princes.

“Yes, you are,” the girl said, and threw an apple at him. Val fumbled it, still somewhat bleary, but still managed to catch it before it hit the ground.

“Okay,” he said. He knew better than to argue with a teenage girl. “Thank you. For the apple.”

She flapped her hand at him again. “I’m Alte. You are?”

“Valerie.” Val took a bite of the apple, and swallowed. It was good. “Val is fine.”

Alte mirrored Val, taking another bite of her own apple, then asked, “Where are you from?”

“New Orleans,” he said. “That’s in America. I grew up in a convent.”

Alte nodded sagely. “Goyische.”

“I know that one,” Val said. He’d heard the Madsen and Graves brothers sling the term around; the context was more obvious in hindsight. Alte raised her eyebrows at him in a silent invitation to continue, so he did. “My–someone I traveled with spoke Yiddish. With his family. He didn’t teach me any, but I picked up a few things like that.”

Another nod from Alte. She was leaning sideways against the wall and staring at him again, sizing him up.

“What happened to your neck?” she asked.

Val’s fingers flew to the bandage in spite of himself. It was peeling; he checked to make sure all the younger kids had gone before he unstuck the bandage the rest of the way to show Alte the healing bite wound. She made a face.

“Someone bit you?”

“On the boat, after we left America,” Val said. He really didn’t feel like explaining the Demeter twice in one day.

Luckily, Alte didn’t seem to care for much more explanation than that. She turned on her heel and gestured for Val to come along with her, only pausing long enough to make sure he’d actually begun to walk before she started off down one of the first floor hallways. She was fast, but Val had the advantage of much longer legs, and kept pace with her easily.

“You’ll come up with me,” she said. “To the tenth years’ floor. We have bandages, and better places to sleep than the stairs. And the first years will leave you alone.”

“I thought you had to take tests to get up and down the floors,” Val said. He still wasn’t entirely clear on that part.

Alte gave him a bemused look. “That’s why I’m sneaking you up the back staircase. You thought we only had one set of stairs?”

Val shrugged back at her. He hadn’t given much thought to the layout of the tower, but a second staircase did make sense now that she mentioned it. With this many students in one place, you’d probably need more than one way to get up and down the tower.

“But you’ll probably have to answer questions anyway,” she added. “Everyone’s still studying. They’re going to use you to practice English and philosophy.”

“I was a priest,” he said flatly. “I’m used to it.”

“Was?” Alte asked, glancing sideways at him. Now it was Val’s turn to flap a hand dismissively at her, as they turned the corner and found themselves at the foot of a stone staircase that spiraled up and out of sight onto higher floors.

“Ask me when we get to the top,” he said, then amended, “if I make it there.”

He hadn’t thought until just now about how much climbing ten floors’ worth of stairs was. It would be a miracle if he made it to five without collapsing.

Alte broke into a grin. “You’ll be fine.”

Val sighed. “Well, no reward without pain.”

“What a Catholic thing to say,” Alte replied, in what Val was beginning to understand as her usual wry manner, and started up the stairs.

Val started to protest, thought better of it, and began his ascent behind her.

23.6 || 23.8

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.6

“What is this place?” John asked. 

The chatter from the dozen or so children looking down on them from the balcony had grown louder. Without answering, Cassidy began to steer Percy by the shoulders toward a spiral staircase.

“Be a dear, toss Ephraim over,” Cassidy said over their shoulder. “Come on, boys, don’t look so grave. It’s only school.”

John did not toss Ephraim over. ‘Ephraim’ was clinging to his leg. Percy managed to duck Cassidy and make his way back over to John and Gawain. Percy bent over to whisper in Gawain’s ear.

“I think it’s all right,” he said. “Mr. John and Mr. Val brought us here, and there are a lot of kids. Let’s go up with Cassidy.”

Gawain shook his head and clutched John’s leg even tighter. Cassidy stood at the banister, waiting for the boys. Forced to wait, maybe they would also be forced to answer John’s question.

“What is this place?” John asked again.

Cassidy sighed and scratched the back of their neck.

“This is where I’m from,” they said. “I spent seventeen years in this tower. It’s the best you lot can ask for–three meals a day, and I seriously doubt anyone is going to come to little Baveldertshtet looking for those two.”

“But what is it,” John pressed.

“It’s…a yeshiva?” Cassidy said, then launched into what sounded like a prepared speech: “The tower is a school of study on the Torah, Rabbinic literature, and philosophy. Each floor  represents a year of study. Every year during finals week, all students have the opportunity to test themselves against the master of their floor. If they pass the floor master’s examination, they will be allowed to progress to the next floor and begin a new course of study in the new year.” Cassidy paused. “So…let’s go? Boys, come now.”

Percy and Gawain were looking at John to answer for them. John looked back at them.

“I suppose, ah, we should get on,” Percy said. He didn’t move. “It’s a touch nerve-wracking, not speaking the language. But one must carry on, Gawain.”

John began to peel Gawain off his leg. In the meantime, Cassidy had been pulled back into conversation with the children on the balcony. They spoke animatedly, with a hint of argument in their voice. The other children openly stared at the two boys, whispering to each other.

“I’ll go with you,” John said to Percy.

Percy nodded several times. He chewed his lip. Gawain exchanged his grip on John’s leg for his hand.

“Ah-ah-ah, what is this?” Cassidy said. “I negotiated for two little children, not two little children and a big scary man.”

“Renegotiate,” John said. He started up the stairs with Percy and Gawain pressed close. Cassidy followed on his heels, pleading their case to the other children in fast-spoken Yiddish as they approached the top.

“Er heyst John…uh…”

The children on the second floor landing scattered as John reached the top of the stairs. Most of the area was taken up by large tables. On the tables were open books. There were shelves of books as well, none taller than hip-height, which made it awkward for the children trying to hide from him.

John stepped deeper into the room. Percy had taken his other hand at some point on the stairs. Around them, there was another shuffle as hiding places were exchanged.

“Baruch dayan ha'emet,” came a little, fervent voice.

Behind him, Cassidy burst into laughter.

“Who are you saying that for? Who has died? If you’re saying that for yourself, at least say the whole thing.” They switched to Yiddish to repeat the question.

Finally, someone came out to meet them. It was still a kid, but an older one, fourteen or fifteen. She had dark skin and two orderly braids that ended just under her ears. She blinked at them from behind large glasses.

“Zey nisht redn eydish?” she asked.

“Nit daytsh, nit frantsoyzish, nit holendish…” Cassidy explained. They spoke for a little while. John closely chaperoned Percy and Gawain’s hesitant exploration. A sharp laugh drew John’s attention back to Cassidy. They had turned away from the girl, an annoyed look on their face.

“The rabbi doesn’t come down during finals week,” Cassidy explained. “But the floor master won’t let us go up without testing. Ridiculous waste of time. They’re going to make us test out of every single floor.”

John kept one eye on Percy and Gawain, who had finally let go of his hands. Percy had wanted to look at the books more closely, and Gawain didn’t want to be more than a few feet away from him.

“So?” John asked.

“So, I hope you’re excited for me to school these kids on Rabbi Akiva. Eight floors should only take, oh, all night.” Cassidy stretched their arms out over their head with a loud yell, then rolled their neck. “Okay. Greyt?” They made eye contact with the older girl, whose expression turned serious. “Gebn mir di kashye.”

John watched Cassidy go back and forth with the girl. The test looked like an argument. Percy and Gawain stood around awkwardly until one of the kids poked his head up from behind the bookshelves.

“V-v-vi heyst du?” he asked.

“He asked your name, Menasche. Make a friend,” Cassidy said over their shoulder, then returned to their conversation with the floor master.

Percy stuck his hand forward. “I’m Percy–or, er, Mena…Menashe. I’m sort of on the lam. This is my brother, E…oh, um.” He looked to Cassidy for help.

Cassidy again interjected, translating for Percy. “Menashe, why don’t you ask him ‘vi heyst du,’ hm?”

John crossed his arms over his chest and watched Cassidy hold two conversations at once, translating both sides of Percy’s conversation while talking to the floor master. At a certain point they mixed up what to translate into what language. Instead of bothering to keep track, Cassidy began to narrate everything in an endless stream of English and Yiddish.

“So to answer your question, Sarah,” Cassidy said, “Why do we say ‘Blessed is the true judge’ when we learn of someone’s passing? This is because we should thank God for the bad as well as the good. ‘You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul and with all of your means.’ What is the meaning of ‘all’ in this scripture–’all’ your heart, ‘all’ your soul, ‘all’ your means? ‘All’ means ‘complete’–one must love the Lord, your God ‘completely.’ Now, Sarah, consider the commentary by Rashi…”

Little heads began to pop up as Cassidy continued their speech.

“...This brings us to Rabbi Akiva.” Their gaze snapped to the children watching over the top of the bookshelves. “Berachot 60b,” they said, and the children scattered. Cassidy waited until the sound of pages turning finished. “The great sage Rabbi Akiva was traveling and came upon a city. He looked for a place to stay, but no one would have him. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘All that God does, he does for the good.’ So Rabbi Akiva camped out. He had with him only a candle, a rooster, and a donkey. In the night, a wind blew out his candle. A cat ate his rooster. A lion ate his donkey. Rabbi Akiva still said, ‘All that God does, he does for the good.’” 

Cassidy caught up to themself in both languages, then paused for breath before continuing. “The next day, Rabbi Akiva learned that the city was beset overnight by marauders, and everyone was captured. Only Rabbi Akiva was spared. Without his candle, the marauders did not detect any light. Without the rooster and donkey, no noise attracted their attention.” Cassidy clapped their hands together. “What, Sarah, does this have to do with the bracha ‘Baruch dayan ha'emet’? I will tell you. From this story, we learn that everything happens for a reason, although that reason is only for the ‘true judge’ to know. That is why we say ‘Blessed is the true judge’ in the face of mourning, just as you children should say ‘This is also for the good’ in the face of unpleasantness and adversity.”

Sarah, the floor master, took a key from her pocket and led Cassidy to the far side of the room. Cassidy gestured for John and the boys to follow.

“Don’t bother asking them, their answers are the same as mine,” Cassidy said, gesturing between John and the boys. They peeked over their shoulder at the other children–the whole second floor landing was in an uproar. “Looks like we were the first to pass this year.”

Sarah said something to Cassidy that they didn’t translate. John detected a drop in their mood, although Sarah’s tone didn’t give anything away.

“Okay, okay, let’s go,” Cassidy said, waving the boys through the door. “One step closer to the rabbi.”

23.5 || 23.7

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.5

Cassidy shoved their hands in their pockets, whistling to themself on their way down the road. John was clearly mad at them for turning tail to head home–but what did they care about being in his good graces, anyway? The princes were in Germany. Cassidy’s part in all this was done. They’d get on their boat, sail back to England, and never have to see John, Val, or the two little ones again. 

It was a good thing they’d still had those locks of hair in their jacket. They were just horse hair tied up nicely with a couple of stolen ribbons, but nobody bought the Emilia story without them. Most people didn’t buy it even with the hair, so Cassidy had stopped telling it to anyone who wasn’t a child or a foreigner.

Cassidy grinned to themself. John and Val really were foreigners–which meant they’d have a hell of a time trying to argue their way past the brats on the first floor with only English at their disposal. But eventually someone would think to call for one of the older kids who studied languages, and they’d sort it all out.

Or not. Four goyische strangers banging down the door on shabbos? What a mess. John’s glare wouldn’t get them anywhere fast, either, and even if Cassidy didn’t think John would take out his knife in front of a swarm of ten-year-old kids, they’d see it on his belt and start imagining things. The princes would never be allowed up the tower, not with escorts like that.

Cassidy slowed their gait, somewhat reluctantly, and shot a glance over their shoulder. With no one else to help the princes get an audience at the top…

“No,” Cassidy said aloud, firmly. They threw up their arms. “No, no. Absolutely not!”

A couple of birds in a nearby tree startled and took flight. Cassidy started to walk again, no longer in the mood to whistle.

They hadn’t been back to the tower since they’d packed up and left, eight years ago. It had been messy and public in all the ways that a seventeen-year-old leaving home could be. There was a reason they preferred calling it a banishment. Cassidy had no doubt they’d still be allowed inside–they always would–but the idea of crawling back home for help made them feel like breaking out in hives. 

Not that they were avoiding going back. They could swallow their pride and talk to the rabbi. Not a problem. It just worked out better for everyone, most of all Cassidy, if they ignored their charitable instincts and let the foreigners work it out on their own. 

The sun was beginning to set by the time they reached the edge of the city they’d led everyone through that morning. The gate had been propped open; a traveler was in the process of leaving down the same road Cassidy had come up. 

The traveler was a young woman with her hair uncovered, sitting astride a horse that pulled a cart laden with wooden crates. Cassidy offered her a wave and a smile, and got one in return. Their feet were starting to hurt, but they couldn’t resist–maybe she’d have a good inn in the city to recommend. Or a good bar.

“What’s your name, miss?” Cassidy called to her in German.

“Elke,” she called back.

“Pleased to meet you, Elke,” they said, offering her a sweeping bow. “They call me Cassidy.”

Elke inclined her head in a small, amused nod. “Are you thinking of robbing me, Cassidy?”

The question caught Cassidy off guard, and they barked out a laugh.

“At the gate of the city?” they asked. “Wouldn’t that be kind of indiscrete? I’d hope whatever bandits you have around here are a little smarter than that.”

“You would think so,” Elke said. Her eyes were still dancing in amusement.

“Are you going far?” Cassidy asked, sidling up alongside her horse as it cantered along. “It’ll be dark soon. Let me walk with you, keep the bandits away.”

“I’m just headed to the tower in the valley,” Elke said.

Of course she was. Cassidy couldn’t help but mentally register a gripe with God. They’d had enough testing for one lifetime, thank you.

“What do you need to go there for?” they asked, rearranging their expression into a pout, lacing their fingers together behind their head as they walked. “Isn’t it full of bratty students?”

“Delivery,” Elke nodded to the crates in the cart. “Their laws don’t let them handle money on certain days–I have to wait for sundown to bring their goods for the week.”

“That’s a lot of goods,” Cassidy said.

“There are a lot of students,” Elke replied, wryly. “And I was told to bring more coffee and tea than usual. Something about, eh, testing week.”

Cassidy froze. Elke looked oddly at them as her horse continued past.

“It can’t be finals week,” they said. They wanted to believe that they’d misheard Elke, or that she was mistaken, but they knew neither of those things were true. It was the right time of year for it. 

“Oh, they’ll get eaten alive,” Cassidy groaned. “Fuck!”

They broke into a jog to catch up with the cart, then hopped up into it, landing easily among the crates. Elke and her horse both startled at the sudden impact.

“Sorry, sorry,” Cassidy said. “As it happens, I also need to be at the tower. Very quickly. Can you go a little faster, please?”

*

Elke dropped them off just in front of the tower, then continued around to the back door that led to the kitchen, where she would unload and stack crates until the sun finished setting and a pupil appeared with her payment. Cassidy smiled and waved until she was out of sight, then dropped their hand and expression all at once, glaring at the large set of wooden doors before them. They could hear the sound of raised, arguing voices inside, and it sent a fresh wave of dread coursing through their body.

“Fuck it, we’re doing it,” they muttered, pushed the doors open, and stepped into the tower.

The clamor stopped immediately. Approximately sixteen pairs of eyes fixed themselves on Cassidy. Val and John stood in the middle of the first floor, flanking the princes on either side; Val was red-faced, as though he had been one of the ones doing the arguing just now, and John looked more sour than usual. On the second floor landing that overlooked the first, amidst teetering stacks of books and manuscripts, was a gaggle of children. Many of them were clinging to the flimsy, wooden railing to get a better look at their guests, eyes wide.

“Another?” one of the smaller kids said in Yiddish, standing on tiptoe to get a good look at Cassidy.

“Oh, shit,” another boy said, head poking up from behind a bookshelf. His yarmulke was askew, barely hanging onto his hair by a single pin. “We don’t have enough beds–”

“We should turn them away,” a third piped up. “We’re not supposed to deal with outsiders–”

“But the Torah–”

“-we’re supposed to be studying–”

“-hakhnasat orchim–”

“-the rabbi said-”

“I speak Yiddish, you little schmucks,” Cassidy said loudly, in Yiddish.

The children all jumped. So did Val, for some reason. The room fell silent again.

“My friends need to drop these two boys off with the rabbi,” Cassidy went on. The children looked like they were about to start arguing again, so Cassidy made a swift, silencing gesture with one hand. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s finals week, yeah? So you just ignore us, do your studies, and we’ll go up.”

“You can’t go up,” one of the kids said, the boy with the askew yarmulke who’d popped up from behind his books before. “Everyone’s studying. Even the rabbi.”

Cassidy waved their hand dismissively. “So we’ll break the rabbi’s concentration for five minutes. He’s suffered worse headaches.” 

Cassidy did not specify that they had been one of the rabbi’s most persistent headaches back in the day; instead they picked up on a few guilty-looking faces along the railing. Cassidy raised their eyebrows at those children specifically.

“Well, you can’t all go,” the boy said. “That’s too many people coming up and down the stairs. It’s supposed to be quiet hours.”

This was Cassidy’s least favorite kind of classmate, when they’d been here. The kind who was an absolute stickler for the rules. Fortunately for this boy, Cassidy prided themself on not stooping to the level of fighting a child.

“So these two will stay,” they said, and pointed at Val and John. “I’ll go up with the boys. And we’ll be very quiet.”

John looked back at them with his eyes narrowed, like he could tell he had been volunteered for something he hadn’t consented to. Cassidy shrugged.

The children on the second floor discussed this solution quietly amongst themselves for a long moment, turning away from the railing so that Cassidy could no longer hear them. Eventually, the boy with the askew yarmulke returned to peer down at them, apparently having been elected as a spokesperson.

“Why should we let you interrupt the rabbi’s Torah studies?” he asked. “Everyone in town knows we’re not to be disturbed until the end of the week.”

Oh, these kids. They were really going to make Cassidy divulge everything if they wanted to get up this damned tower. Cassidy pinched the bridge of their nose with two fingers.

“Because I grew up here, alright?” they said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I used to be a student, and I took off. Trust me, he wants to see me.”

The children blinked at them without any recognition in their faces. Cassidy sighed.

“Cassidy Caplan? This means nothing to you?”

“The horse thief?” the boy with the askew yarmulke yelped.

“Well, hold on,” Cassidy said. “It was just the one horse.”

“The one who taught the eighth-years to sword fight?” a kid at the back of the group shouted.

Cassidy swallowed. “Um-”

The children erupted into arguments, exclamations, and frantic finger-pointing.

“Are they going to help us?” Val asked Cassidy quietly.

“God knows,” Cassidy said, switching back to English for his benefit. “Oh, I did not miss it here.”

23.4 || 23.6

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.4

For every prickly sign he gave them, it still didn’t stop Cassidy from trailing in John’s vicinity for the rest of the voyage.

If John was on deck, Cassidy had an excuse to be there too (“Someone has to sail us in the right direction–unless you want this to become an Arctic expedition.”) John didn’t know what that was, but Cassidy said it with confidence. Since John didn’t know how to sail, he couldn’t argue, even when it looked like Cassidy was doing fuck-all. All John could do was try to avoid Cassidy.

Unfortunately, when he went back inside the cabin, John would inevitably be roped into whatever game Val was playing with the boys. Val hadn’t gotten that nap. The boys were too riled up after his story, and it took constant attention to distract them from their dozens of questions. And then Cassidy would find their way into the cabin too. First it was to make another pot of coffee, then to “see what everyone was doing.”

John left again, and soon after, Cassidy once again had a reason to be on deck.

“Why,” John said. Cassidy had come up beside him to do something with the ropes.

“The god of the sea must want us together,” Cassidy said, shamelessly. “At least for the length of a conversation.” They came around John’s other side to do something else with different ropes. “If you don’t want to talk about where you’re from, that’s alright. How about where you’re going?”

John squinted at them. At their hair, dyed mutant-orange but grown out at the roots. At the multiple piercings in each ear. At their crooked smile. Now he got it. Cassidy was flirting with him.

“No,” John said.

Cassidy laughed–it was genuine and relaxed. They leaned back against the railing and shot John a winning smile.

“You at least have to tell me where you want me to take the boat in.” Cassidy said. “There are a dozen different harbors on the German coast.”

John didn’t care about Germany. Getting the kids out of England was all that mattered. Meeting Cody in Italy would come next. And from there, they might go anywhere in the world, as long as it was somewhere Hemisphere wasn’t. John couldn’t picture the future. What he hoped for, as he started to put together a picture of it in his mind, was laughably impossible. He tried to be realistic, but even then the picture would fall apart. Too many questions he couldn’t answer. Would he bring the princes all the way to Italy? To wherever it was he ended up settling after all of this? Would Cody be there? Would he want to be? Would John let him?

Would John ever find Cody again to find out, or would they both wander past each other forever?

Cassidy was looking at John, expecting an answer. Where to take the boat–this had to be decided now.

“I don’t know,” John said.

“You’re just…taking them to Germany? No particular spot? Just ‘Germany’?” Cassidy bit their lip, forcing down a smile. “Going to release them into the wild? You know, princes are an invasive species.”

“I promised to get them out of a bad spot,” John said. “We’ve done that.”

“Tell me everything you know about Germany,” Cassidy countered.

John looked at them. They weren’t flirting anymore. They were much more tolerable like this.

“Percy and Gawain will be safe there.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” Cassidy said. “Listen, one daring hero of the people to another, that’s not going to be good enough. Are you planning on keeping them or settling them down somewhere?”

The ocean spray jumped up against the side of the boat, misting both John and Cassidy. John winced, but Cassidy didn’t seem to notice. Their brow was knit together. They looked serious.

“Do either of you speak German?” Cassidy paused. “Yiddish? Dutch? For God’s sake, French?”

John shook his head after each one.

“Aw, fuck,” Cassidy said. “Fuck! Alright. Fine.”

John didn’t know what kind of agreement they’d just made, but Cassidy looked unhappy. They stormed past John. After a moment, John felt the boat change direction underneath him. He hesitated, then followed after Cassidy.

On the other side of the boat, they rushed from one station to the next, following a sequence that was close enough to second nature that they could argue with themselves while following it.

“Can’t even be banished in peace, nowadays,” Cassidy muttered. “Has banishment lost all meaning? All sanctity?”

John found he was now the one following Cassidy around. As annoying as he’d found the captain earlier, their presence was too loud to allow room for his own sour thoughts.

“Will you be in danger?” John asked.

“Hm? Oh, plenty.” Cassidy hustled to the other end of the boat. John trailed after. “They may kill me on sight.”

“You might meet Emilia again,” John said. He was interested to hear whether Cassidy would consider that a good or bad thing.

“Who?”

“Your wife. Emilia.”

“Sorry, of course. The surf is a bit loud.” They came to stand by John. “Would you believe I still carry a torch for her after all these years? Even knowing she didn’t wait for me?”

“Yes,” John said. “You want to see her again?”

“God, no. If I’m that close to the Altgraf zu Hamburg, I have to assume I’ve already been chopped to pieces.”

John laughed. Cassidy leaned crookedly against the railing, clearly pleased with themselves.

“Are you waiting for somebody?” Cassidy said. “Or hoping somebody’s waiting for you?”

John was still laughing; he couldn’t help himself, despite the sobering question.

“Let me guess–she’s a magnificent, fat, American milkmaid with a protective father who won’t let you marry her for less than a thousand pounds sterling.” John choked, and Cassidy took it as an invitation to continue. “Your type is someone soft to soothe those knife-happy edges, am I right? She’s got a smile that’ll melt your heart, tits that’ll–”

“Stop,” John gasped. “Stop–his name’s Cody. He’s not a milkmaid.”

“Cody!” Cassidy crowed. “What’s he like, then?”

John paused.

“Strong,” he said. Then, “I dumped him.”

“Ouch. What else?”

What else was there? Cody kept moving when he should be broken. He protected others as best as he could. He’d locked John in a bathroom and nearly gotten John killed, but somehow, against all odds, he’d managed to save him. John was still mad at him. John loved him. John couldn’t have him, or sooner or later he’d end up breaking him.

He had John’s gun. He’d get out of England alive.

“Nothing else,” John said. He fought his smile back down. “That’s it.”

*

Cassidy brought them to land in a major city. As soon as they left the boat, Cassidy switched to German. Val had a curious, glazed-over look on his face as they followed after Cassidy through the crowded streets. John paid attention for the both of them. He brought up the rear, keeping Percy and Gawain in his line of sight.

“Follow close, follow close,” Cassidy called back in English.

Val had been lagging. He caught up.

For someone who was banished, Cassidy was very friendly. They flirted with no fewer than three strangers on the street. Even if John couldn’t understand the language, he could tell from the pink cheeks and sharp laughter. Cassidy gleefully shouted retorts over their shoulder as the crowd pushed them away from their half-finished conversations. 

“Shouldn’t you be worried about being chopped into pieces…” John muttered. He was only loud enough for Gawain to hear, and the boy latched onto the idea with horror.

“Who’s getting chopped into pieces?” he repeated until John addressed his concern.

“Cassidy,” John said. “Go ask them.”

Gawain sprinted up through the crowd. He grabbed Val’s hand and clung on tight as he shouted for Cassidy’s attention. Cassidy gave John a stricken look, which John returned with a blank expression.

“John said you’re going to be chopped into pieces,” Gawain said tearfully. “Is it true?”

“John said that? Well, he must be right. You’ll protect me, won’t you? Little knight-errant?”

Gawain insisted that he would.

“That reminds me–you boys need to settle on new names.”

That topic of conversation lasted the boys the whole trip through the city. Whatever names they came up with were too English, and taking this criticism from Cassidy, their ideas became ‘too French’ instead. By the time Cassidy had led them through the city center and onto the road out of town, they had also guided the boys toward ‘Menashe’ and ‘Ephraim.’

“Y’varekh’khah Adonai v’yishm’rekha,” Cassidy said, laughing to themself.

The group walked along the road until a forest grew up around it on either side. John began to worry night would fall before they got anywhere; they didn’t have any camping supplies with them, or any food for the kids. Cassidy led them on as if they didn’t notice the darkening sky. They sang a walking song to themself, humming where they had forgotten the words.

“Aha–there,” they said as the forest vanished on one side. John took a few steps from the road. It wasn’t that the forest was gone, but that the land had dropped off into a valley. The forest continued down the slope. From their position on the ridge, the whole valley was visible. It was mostly forest below, but there was a clearing with buildings in the middle. It looked like an ordinary rural town, except for the slightly crooked tower that dwarfed all the surrounding buildings–and trees. 

“Well, it’s been a great adventure,” Cassidy said. “The rabbi there is always adopting foundlings, so two more shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You’re not coming with us?” John asked.

“Why, John, you sound disappointed,” Cassidy said. “But I shouldn’t make little Ephraim’s job any harder than it has to be. Now, in the interest of not being chopped to pieces…”

They started to turn back down the road. John moved into their path.

“We don’t speak any German.”

“Or Yiddish,” Cassidy said, as if agreeing that this was a shame. “I don’t suppose you can get by in Hebrew?”

“You have to come with us,” John said. “You’ve come this far.”

“And only because you’re very cute and I was doing you an enormous favor. Your princes will be safe in town. Hau rein, goodbye.”

Cassidy tried to move past John; John moved back into their way.

“Settle them in. Then go.” John paused, then said flatly, “Gawain will protect you.”

“John, you don’t doubt my story do you? I really was banished. The Altgraf zu Hamburg…”

“Is this Hamburg?” Val asked. “I pictured it bigger than…”

“Well, no. But–”

“So?” John challenged.

“–there are a lot of places I’m not welcome. You’d better hurry; you’re chasing the sunset.”

Cassidy was right. It would be better for John and Val to get the princes through the woods before dark than waste time arguing, even if it meant arriving in town alone. John shot Cassidy a glare.

“Bye, princes. Be good, study hard.” Cassidy ruffled Gawain’s hair on the way past. To John and Val, they gave a two-fingered salute as they backpedaled down the road. A minute later, John could hear bits and pieces of their walking song.

“Study?” Percy asked.

“Let’s go,” John snapped. He stomped toward the fork in the road which would take them down into the valley.

23.3 || 23.5

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.3

“Well, what about you?” Cassidy asked.

It took Val a moment to realize he was being spoken to. He’d tuned out about halfway through Cassidy’s story. Val had very little doubt that the captain had embellished their history to keep the princes entertained. Not that there was anything wrong with that. So far, Cassidy was doing a better job holding the princes’ attention than either John or Val had.

Val blinked at Cassidy. “What about me?”

“I’ll bet you’ve got a story or two,” Cassidy said. They were still sitting on the floor, looking expectantly up at him. “A man doesn’t just trip and fall into smuggling two princes over a national border.”

Val glanced to John for assistance. The other man had sat down at the table and was apparently too busy buttering a slice of bread to help.

“I’m not a good storyteller,” Val said. This was patently untrue–he had to be, to keep a congregation’s attention–but he also hadn’t slept in what felt like days and wasn’t at all in the mood to tell a story.

“How do two Americans get all the way to England, anyway?” Cassidy asked.

“We came on a ship,” Val said. John gave him a hard look, which he ignored. Cassidy deserved at least the bare minimum of honesty about the situation; the captain was technically here against their will, after all. “And there were four of us.”

Cassidy’s eyebrows shot up. “You lost two people…did they die?”

“We were separated. After we deal with the princes, we…” Val trailed off. Probably best not to let Cassidy know the whole plan, even if he was trying to stay honest. “We’re going to try and meet up again. I left one of them a message and told her where I’d be waiting.”

He was starting to grow uncomfortable with Cassidy’s eyes trained on him, but Cassidy was blocking the door, and there was nowhere else to go in the small cabin. Val settled for crossing to the windows and sticking his face out of one, wrinkling his nose as the smell of the sea hit him full force.

“You didn’t say why you came to England,” Cassidy called.

Val turned around, leaning with his elbows against the window frame. “No, we didn’t.”

Even tired and hungry, there were still hundreds of other stories he would rather have told than the story of what had happened in Maine. If he thought about the fight at the barricade for too long, it was like pressing his fingers to a hot pan and holding them there.

Cassidy looked momentarily like they wanted to pursue this line of questioning, then gave up.

“What kind of ship?” they asked, instead.

“A big one,” Val said. This, he could talk about. He had been so checked out for most of what had happened on the Demeter that it felt like it had happened to a different person. “We thought it was going to Canada, but it turned out to be going to France instead. Most of the passengers were rich folks from France, lots of nobility.”

“Not much news makes it out of France these days, I hear,” Cassidy mused.

“Did you meet the Dauphin?” Gawain asked. His eyes were wide.

“You could say that,” Val said wryly. “He was in disguise as a detective aboard the ship.”

“Bullshit,” Cassidy said. They were sitting up straighter in front of the door, looking utterly incredulous. “A detective?”

Val nodded. “People were being murdered aboard the ship.”

The princes both looked aghast at this. John gave Val another look. Val shrugged back at him–the boys had been hanging around the rebels for months, there was no point in pretending they hadn’t been exposed to things like murder. There was, after all, an ongoing attempt on their own lives.

“The other two we were traveling with, Cody and Friday, decided they were going to find the murderer,” Val went on. He still didn’t have a good grasp of what Cody had been up to on the ship, but he could tell his and Friday’s end of things easily enough. “We were also in disguise; most of us were pretending to be rich folks. Friday, she…put herself in a position to be the detective’s sidekick. She has a way of doing that kind of thing.”

“How many people were killed?” Percy wanted to know.

“Did she catch the murderer?” Gawain asked.

Val held up his hand to Gawain, gesturing for him to wait. It took him a minute to count up all of Sacha’s murder victims. “Five…I think. And yes, she caught them. Eventually. I even helped her out, a little.”

He carefully neglected to mention that the dirty bandages on his neck and wrist were from the strange occurrences aboard the Demeter. Not even John knew where they’d come from, and Val preferred it that way.

“For a while, it seemed like the murderer could kill passengers even if their rooms were locked. They managed to frame Cody for one of the killings that way. Some people thought they were climbing around the outside of the ship like lizards, coming in through windows–”

There was an abrupt squealing noise of wood on wood. John had gotten to his feet, pushing his chair out from the table. Both princes looked to him curiously. Val did, too, and was surprised to find John looking somewhere between furious and seasick.

“Need some air,” he muttered, and gave Cassidy only a few seconds to shift out of his way before he left the cabin, door banging on its hinges in his wake.

That was right. John had very nearly been a victim himself. One of Sasha’s cohort had crawled through his cabin window to kidnap him. That was how he’d ended up in the pool, where Val and Cody had saved him. No wonder he’d looked so tense about this story being told.

Val felt his face flush with guilt.

“What’s his problem?” Cassidy asked.

“He was next on the list to be killed,” Val said. “I helped save his life.”

At this, Cassidy looked pensive. They were quiet for a moment, then spoke again.

“So, who was the killer?”

“It was the Dauphin and his friends. They were playing a sort of mystery game with the other passengers. The Dauphin’s friends were killing people from a list of victims off, so the Dauphin could play detective.” Val couldn’t hide the distaste from his voice. He truly did not like Sacha.

“Wait,” Cassidy said. “For real?”

“The Dauphin of France?” Percy asked, his voice shrill.

“I’m also going to get some air,” Val said, answering none of their questions, and started for the door. Cassidy let him go, but he could still feel their eyes on his back as he departed.

John was on the deck with his back to the cabin door, leaning on the railing. Val approached him slowly, exaggerating his gait so that John could hear him coming long before he reached the rail. John said nothing, and did not turn around.

“I’m sorry,” Val said, once he was standing next to John. “I–”

“You forgot,” John interrupted. His voice was clipped. “It’s fine.”

It did not feel fine. Val folded his arms on the railing, rested his head on his arms, and let out a heavy sigh.

“You’re right to be mad. I wasn’t thinking.” He paused. “Well, I was. I was thinking I didn’t want to tell the story of what happened in Maine, but I had to say something more interesting. Not to say that what happened to you was interesting. I just–”

“It’s fine,” John said again. 

He had turned his head to look oddly at Val. Well, Val probably deserved that.

“You should take a nap,” he said, bluntly. “And eat something.”

Val almost laughed, but caught himself. He must have really looked like shit, for John to be telling him that.

“Fine,” he said, echoing John. “We’re okay?”

John considered for a moment, then dipped his head in a nod.

“I want to be alone now,” he said. Val took the hint.

23.2 || 23.4

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.2

John walked around the perimeter; there was hardly room for two people to pass each other on deck. Not much like the Demeter.

Val was still talking with the captain, Cassidy. They moved back and forth over the deck, testing various knots, and Val trailed after them, mostly silent while Cassidy chatted. John tried to stay out of their path, but it was impossible. Cassidy slid past him easily, clearly used to navigating the narrow space despite their size.

Percy and Gawain stuck to John. Gawain liked the novelty of the boat; Percy did not. They were John’s shadow as he explored, quietly bickering with each other.

Cassidy came tramping back around the deck from the other direction; they placed a hand on John’s shoulder and pivoted off him as they passed. John must have looked as offended as he felt; Cassidy caught a glimpse of him over their shoulder and shot him an amused sort of smile. John did not make an effort to fix his face.

“Why aren’t we leaving?” Percy asked imperiously.

“Glad you asked,” Cassidy said. “Children–I have an important job for you both.”

Gawain stood at attention.

“I need you to find the captain’s cigarettes. They’re somewhere in the cabin. Try the floor first, then work up from there.”

John shot Cassidy a disgusted look, then went into the cabin himself.

“I try not to stand on ceremony,” Percy said, entering behind him. “But I hardly think–oh, goodness.”

The cabin was badly kept up. John slowly entered the center of the long, rectangular space.

“It smells,” Gawain said.

Like fish and sour milk. John shed the crisp police uniform shirt that had kept him warm on-deck but threatened to choke the life out of him in the airless cabin. He placed it over the back of the kitchen chair, which was already creaking under the weight of a pile of sweaters. Then he went to the windows, which opened by crank.

From there, John began to take the cabin apart. He started with the kitchen area. When he had scrubbed it to satisfaction, he went after the clothes on the floor. Then the dust. Then the dirt underfoot. He swept everything out the cabin door, happening to trip Cassidy and Val up with the broom as they passed by on the deck.

The sea wind caught the dust pile mid-sweep, and took John’s breath away as well. He hadn’t realized they had gotten underway. Land was no longer in sight; only black water.

Cassidy brushed a stray dust bunny from their sleeve.

“I think you’re out of cigarettes,” John said.

Cassidy no longer looked amused. John turned back to the cabin. It was well aired-out and as clean as he could make it without soap, water, and more time than he was willing to spend. As John put the broom away, Percy and Gawain gradually peeled themselves from the walls and let themselves explore. Percy went halfheartedly for the books stacked by Cassidy’s bed, while Gawain returned to John’s shadow.

John went back to the kitchen. He began to open cabinets. There was a gas burner and a working tap.

“You’re hungry,” John said, pulling down plates.

Gawain nodded. The boat rocked unpleasantly; one of the kitchen drawers rolled open on its own. John closed it.

Cassidy didn’t have much to eat onboard. John found half a loaf of two-day-old bread in one of the cabinets and a jar of pickled eggs and wild onions under the sink. There was butter, canned fish, a canister of coffee, tea, and powdered milk. John stared down at what he’d collected. Gawain looked also, his expression dark.

“Bread and butter, please,” Gawain said.

John found a good knife and began to carve Gawain a slice from the loaf.

Behind him, the cabin door opened. Cassidy came in, still talking.

“--which is how I came to be known as ‘The Hero of Orkney,’ and why I’ve never been back to Scotland since,” they called back over their shoulder to Val. “There they are.”

Cassidy moved into John’s space. Their carton of cigarettes sat in the window behind the sink, but John was in the way. Cassidy leaned back against the countertop, almost nose to nose with him.

“Pass me those down, would you, love?”

John finished cutting a second slice of bread, this one for Percy.

“Get it yourself,” he said. He did not move out of the way. He opened the pot of butter and spread it generously over the two pieces of bread.

Unfazed, Cassidy continued to talk. “I was just telling your friend that I’m a bit famous in the Scottish islands. Have a warrant in Inverness, of course, but you can’t please everyone.” 

They leaned forward, straining to reach their cigarettes, but their fingers couldn’t quite close around the box. John regretted telling them to get it themself. They hadn’t touched him, but goosebumps raised on his bare arms. They raised their eyebrows at him, much too close.

John reached out and grabbed the cigarettes, tossing them to the other side of the cabin. Cassidy gave a disbelieving huff, but went after them. As soon as Cassidy was out of the way, John put the police shirt back on over his undershirt.

“Boys, food,” he said, still doing up the last button.

“You didn’t have to throw them,” Cassidy said. “I’m not a dog.”

Well, I am. John stared at them over the heads of Percy and Gawain, who ate the stale bread as fast as they could without choking. It was a strange thought, but it struck true. He’d given Cody his gun so he wouldn’t feel so out of control, but he’d gone right to violence in the tunnels, and he’d had a knife at hand ever since. He felt more like an animal than a person.

“Those are some scars,” Cassidy said. They lit a cigarette, then wandered back to John again, holding the box out to him. “There a story there?”

“No,” John said. It took him a minute to realize they must have meant the scars on his back. Cody was the only one who was supposed to know about those. He hesitated over the cigarettes, then crossed his arms over his chest, unhappy with the goosebumps that wouldn’t go down. Cassidy took the cigarettes back.

“Okay, well, two Americans and a couple of princes, you must have a few stories between you.” Cassidy gestured for one of them to talk. “Give me something.”

The boat passed through a choppy patch of water; the same drawer as earlier sprang open.

“–In a moment,” Cassidy said. They jogged back outside the cabin, cigarette pinched between their fingers.

Val deflated against the closed door.

“They’re–they’re not bad,” he said.

“Don’t like them,” John said.

“I’d like a story,” Gawain said, just as Percy carefully set down the book he’d brought with him to the table.

“I wish I’d applied myself to Dutch,” he said with a little sigh. “The characters are interesting, but I haven’t the vocabulary.”

“They were telling me some interesting things earlier,” Val tried again. John gave him a doubting look. “I asked them why they were banished from Germany. They were saying they’d wanted to marry this girl, but she was the daughter of this, uh–governor sort of figure. So they got married in secret. I imagine that had something to do with it.”

“What happened to the girl?” Percy asked.

Val shrugged. The cabin fell silent until Cassidy returned.

“Will you tell the story of how you were banished?” Gawain chirped. He had eaten all his bread except the crust, which Percy nibbled at.

Cassidy let the cabin door close behind them. They were wet with ocean spray, and their face was red. The contrast drew attention to scars that John hadn’t noticed before–two on one cheek.

“What’s that?” they said, out of breath. “How I was banished? Where from?”

“Germany,” John said. “Where else have you been banished?”

Cassidy slowly smiled at him. “Sorry, John, I think I only have time for one story.”

John looked away. He felt a sharp surge of annoyance.

“The story of how I was banished from Germany,” Cassidy said. They sat down on the floor, their back to the cabin door. “Let’s see–this was a good twelve years ago now. I was working for the Altgraf zu Hamburg, who was a noble and fair man well-deserving of his rule. Do you like books?”

Cassidy had turned this question on Percy. Both boys had moved closer in order to hear the story. Percy nodded.

“zu Hamburg was a great collector of books in all languages, with a personal library so large that it required its own librarian–that was me. As such, I was thrust in the path of Emilia, zu Hamburg’s only daughter. We were instantly in love. She had hair of gold that, when she let it down, would tumble in ringlets all the way to her waist. As her legally wed, I’m one of the few that have seen it.” Cassidy sighed. “Of course, eventually she had to tell her father about the marriage, and he was so angry that he banished me, never to step foot again on German earth.”

“That’s awful,” Percy said. John noticed he fidgeted anxiously with his fingers in his lap. “What about Emilia?”

“Emilia…” Cassidy tilted their head back against the door. “For many years, I thought she would wait for me to find my way back to her. Before I left, she gave me a gift of a lock of her hair and a promise that no one would ever see her hair again but me. But years passed, and I couldn’t bring myself to go to her. How could I? I couldn’t expect her to leave the privileges of a countess for an impoverished servant without a country.” Percy nodded along. “Still, I would talk about her wherever I went, about the girl with the golden hair that waited for me. I was in Brussels perhaps five years ago–telling this same tale–and I was in my cups, so I decided to show the man Emilia’s lock. I must have wept as much as boasted by the end of my tale, and the man took pity on me. He held the lock of Emilia’s hair in his palm and he said: ‘I often visit Hamburg on business. In one year’s time, meet me back here in this pub, and I’ll tell you if your wife still waits for you.’”

Cassidy paused, their gaze traveling first to Percy and Gawain, then to Val and John. They smiled at John. They kept doing that. John made a questioning face, but Cassidy had already turned away.

“I made sure I was in Brussels at the time we’d decided, not really believing that the stranger would keep his word,” Cassidy continued. “Well, the man did return. He returned, and he gave me this.” Cassidy reached into his jacket, fumbling for something in the interior pocket. “He said, ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but your Emilia gives up her lock without a key. In fact, one barely has to knock.’”

Cassidy pulled two matching loops of blond hair from their jacket, both tied with the same red ribbon. Percy gasped in horror; Gawain didn’t appear to understand. Cassidy returned both locks of hair to their jacket pocket. “Anyway,” they said, “That’s my time. I want to hear a story from John. You’re ready enough with a knife; surely you have a tale of daring-do.”

John stepped forward to lean against the chair piled with sweaters; Cassidy winced as the wood creaked.

“No,” John said. 

He could feel Cassidy’s eyes searching his face again, waiting for him to say more. Instead, he turned towards the table to silently cut himself a slice of bread.

23.1 || 23.3

#story

[prairiesongserial]

23.1

“We’re not paying you anything,” John said, brow furrowed in confusion. He had sheathed the knife in his belt, however begrudgingly. “We’re kidnapping you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” the boat’s captain said cheerfully. “We can negotiate the fee for the short notice if your story is good enough.”

Val could see the plan for leaving Southend-On-Sea crumbling in front of his eyes. Though it wasn’t like he and John had any alternative–there were no other boats docked in the harbor, so they’d had to make do with this one, eccentric captain and all. John had originally suggested tossing the captain overboard, or leaving them tied up on the docks, but Val had rightfully pointed out that neither of them knew how to sail. The captain had to come with them. He just hadn’t expected said captain to be noncompliant.

“John, will you go get the boys?” Val asked. Removing John from the equation for a moment seemed the fastest way to de-escalate. He could sense John itching to take out the knife again. “I’ll negotiate payment.”

John gave him a hard look of protest. Val met his gaze and held it steady, refusing to blink until John did. Finally, John exhaled hard through his nose and turned to disembark the boat.

“It’s been a long week,” Val said. “I’m Valerie. Val, if you prefer. That’s John.”

“Cassidy,” the captain said. To Val’s surprise, they offered him a hand to shake. Their grip was stronger than he’d expected.

“I should be straight with you, Cassidy,” Val said. “We don’t have any money.”

Cassidy snorted. “Right. Queen’s guards with no bribe money on ‘em. That’d be the day.”

Ah. The uniforms. Val had almost forgotten.

“We’re not really guards,” he said. Too late, he realized it was a position he could have used for leverage, but the impulse towards honesty had won over.

“So you are spies,” Cassidy said, eyebrows creeping up their forehead.

Val frowned. “I never said that.”

“Well, if you’re not spies and you’re not the police, what are you?”

“Two Americans trying to leave England,” Val said, shortly. He was losing his patience quicker than usual; something about staying up all night did that to a person.

The boat shifted underfoot–John had returned with the princes and was helping them aboard. Gawain stared around in wide-eyed awe as he was lifted onto the deck, running to the rail to look down at the water. Percy, by contrast, looked mostly annoyed to have been woken up. He had a pink imprint of the backseat of the car across his face.

“Is this the boat we’re taking?” he asked. His tone made it clear that the boat did not meet expectations.

Cassidy had gone silent; a quick glance in their direction revealed that they were white as a sheet, staring at the two boys now ambling around the deck of their boat. They opened their mouth, closed it again, then appeared to seriously consider what they wanted to ask before they asked it.

“Are those the missing princes?” they settled on, finally.

“Yes,” Val said, because there was no point in denying that now. “So you can see why we need to leave–”

“You’re the kidnappers the Queen has been looking for?” Cassidy cut him off.

“Well–no,” Val stammered. The question had caught him off guard, but he supposed it was the right one, considering how he and John had approached Cassidy in the first place. He needed to choose his words carefully if he was going to defuse this situation.

“Would you believe we just found them?” he asked.

“I would not,” Cassidy said.

“It’s what happened,” John said. Apparently he had decided to participate in the conversation again. He was keeping an eye on Gawain and Percy from a casual, though strategic position. He stood between Cassidy and the princes, and also between Cassidy and an exit. 

“We were in an accident in the tunnels under London, and the group that kidnapped the princes happened to find us and take us in,” Val said. It was the most succinct way he could explain it without sounding crazy–if Cassidy wanted the fine details later, they could get into it then. “We didn’t know they had the princes, at first, but then we found out, and we offered to help get them somewhere safe. They can’t go back to the palace. The Queen wants them out of the picture.”

“Not that I’m a fan of the Queen,” Cassidy said, “but how the hell do you know that?”

“The way I understand it, the princes have a more legitimate claim to the throne than the Queen does,” Val said. He briefly wondered if Cassidy knew anything about Hemisphere, and decided they probably didn’t. No point getting into the weeds on that, then.

Cassidy went quiet for a moment, considering. They began to pace in a square on the deck, producing a cigarette from their pocket and puffing on it as they went. Val could once again sense John becoming more and more impatient as time wore on, and silently begged the other man not to interrupt before Cassidy could come to a decision.

At last, Cassidy came to a stop. They seemed to have made up their mind about something.

“How do the princes feel about all this?” they asked.

“We want to come with Mr. John and Mr. Val,” Gawain said loudly, without even turning around.

“If we stay in England, we stay underground forever–or probably get killed,” Percy said, more pragmatically. He had moved to stand with his brother at the rail, clutching Gawain’s shirt in a fist to keep him from toppling off into the water. “This way, we might get to have a life.”

Cassidy pinched the bridge of their nose, looking suddenly aggrieved. It took Val by surprise–he  shot a glance to John, who looked equally baffled.

“Fine!” Cassidy said, strained, and Val realized they weren’t annoyed with the princes, but with themself. “Alright, fine. I’ll take you across to Germany. For the kids’ sake. That’s what we’re doing here, right?”

“Right,” John agreed, hesitant.

“You couldn’t have led with the…the pathos? You had to pull out a knife? Never mind. Don’t say anything.” Cassidy began to pace the distance between Val and John. “I’ll drop you at the border gratis, but that’s it. You have to figure out where to go after that.” Cassidy jabbed their finger in the air for emphasis. “I’m not setting a foot into that country unless it’s at gunpoint. Got it?”

“Is Germany really that bad?” Val asked. He had no idea what to expect–Alys and her crew had made it seem like a safer alternative to France, but considering the state France was in, that wasn’t exactly a glowing recommendation.

“It’s fine. Great country. Lovely towns,” Cassidy grumbled. They crossed the deck briskly, and began to haul up a rope that seemed like it belonged to the boat’s anchor. “I was just banished from it, is all.”

epilogue 22 || 23.2

#story

[prairiesongserial]

epilogue 22

Iris answered the phone.

“Iris Madsen.”

Her interpreter skipped the standard spiel that this was an interpreted line, the call was confidential, and to allow pauses for interpretation. Anyone with Iris’s direct line knew how to talk on the phone.

“This is Berkeley checking in.”

This was not Iris’s ten-thirty appointment. Agent Berkeley worked for the Foreign Office. She should have been communicating up her own chain of command. She shouldn’t have had Iris’s direct line, either, but she was a spy, so Iris wasn’t particularly surprised.

The clock ticked over to ten-thirty-one and the call-waiting light on Iris’s phone flashed.

“Why break protocol?” Iris asked.

There was a longer than normal pause while the interpreter informed Berkeley of the poor connection and asked her to repeat her answer.

“Yes, I’ll repeat. I’ve run into something unexpectedly high profile,” Berkeley said. “I thought you might have concerns about flow of information. Sorry, I’ll get to the point. The four missing bounties from the Maine conflict are here. Well, not here. They were here. They appear to be operating as agents of the Dauphin.”

“Berkeley, remind me of your assignment.”

“Without broadcasting the details, Ma’am, I’m calling from London.”

“Hold, please.”

Iris yanked open a filing cabinet under her desk. She did not have to thumb through to find what she was looking for. The file for the ongoing disaster which had started with a loan of ten thousand silver from Hemisphere Central to the Dead-Eyes was a very familiar one. She pulled out her notes about the Maine conflict.

Johannes had intended the circus to rendezvous in Canada. Iris had strongly hinted that he should get out of the country, and she understood that he had attempted to go through with it. He had forged passports. When Cody Allison dropped off the map, she’d had no reason to think he hadn’t stuck to the plan.

Her sources within the circus seemed to think so, too. There were people there who would still talk to her–another reason she had gone in person to Johannes’s funeral. Unfortunately, none of them had crossed paths with Cody Allison since the day of the Maine conflict. Iris’s intelligence had lost track of them as well.

“We thought we lost them to Canada,” Iris said. “Why are they in…” She paused. “Why are they working for the Dauphin?”

“Rest assured, Ma’am, that I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Give me everything, in order.”

Berkeley gave her a detailed report, minute by minute, of the brief glimpse she’d caught of Cody Allison, John Graves, Friday Wilmot, and Valerie Lecter in the Queen’s receiving hall. Apparently Cody Allison had attempted to cross the border into England from France without a passport, boasting a ridiculous letter from the Dauphin in lieu of paperwork. He’d been detained,  obviously. After that, Berkeley was missing a few details. Her position in the palace was intended to keep Iris abreast of major moves, not the comings and goings of individuals. She hadn’t been able to tail Allison without arousing suspicion.

All Berkeley knew was that the Palace had lost track of all four members of Allison’s cohort in the middle of the night, and had cause to believe they were working with a political faction to move the princes Gawain and Percival across the French border. 

The Queen was new to her position, and the ascension had been a little sloppy, but given Hemisphere’s bloody origins under Constantine, a murdered regent wasn’t bad. Georgiana was Canada’s pet project, and Iris hadn’t given her much thought. Nothing in Berkeley’s explanation indicated why Allison would have taken action. Then again, past experience indicated Allison would cause an international incident at any opportunity.

“How good is that intelligence?” Iris asked.

Berkeley paused.

“We know that Cody Allison entered the country via France, but we don’t know if the letter from the Dauphin is legitimate. The Palace overheard the plan to move the princes via covert listening device. From my position, I wasn’t able to gather any more information. Should I make a move?”

“Don’t act. I need you where you are.” Iris needed an eye on Georgiana, especially since the Foreign Office didn’t have any agents in France. France wasn’t Hemisphere and didn’t have trans-Atlantic telephone lines. The agents posted there eventually stopped sending letters, so the Foreign Office eventually stopped sending agents. “Do you have anything else to report?”

“No, Ma’am.”

They ended the call. Iris stared at the flashing call-waiting light, and transferred her ten-thirty to her secretary’s phone.

*

Iris tramped down two flights of stairs to the Foreign Office. They shared a floor with the switchboard, which took up most of the available space. Iris passed the open door of the switchboard operators’ break room, where the conversation was so loud that she could feel the vibrations. She burst into the Foreign Office without knocking.

The Foreign Office was about the size of the break room next door. They didn’t need many desks, since their agents spent all their time in the field. There were only four office staff: an analyst, a typist, a stenographer, and the Head. 

Iris stopped in the center of the room. The analyst and stenographer appeared to be engaged in an argument–light-hearted, by their facial expressions, which soon went to blank horror as they realized Iris’s presence. The typist was building reports out of the steno’s notes with single-minded focus. She was the last to notice Iris’s arrival.

The Head was bouncing a rubber ball off the side of the wall. Ben Cataldi was an old-timer from Constantine’s crew. He’d built the Foreign Office after he retired from gunslinging. He was the reason Iris could make a trans-Atlantic phone call.

“Iris,” he signed, dropping the rubber ball. It rolled under the typist’s desk. “Why are you here?”

Cataldi was a novice signer, still terrible after all these years, but Iris found his necessary bluntness enjoyable. On the wall behind his desk, there was a large map of the world littered with colored push pins. Each one tacked a scrap of paper with the name of an agent over their city of operation.

“I need you to move some people around,” Iris said, signing with exaggerated clarity. She pointed to the map with raised eyebrows.

The analyst got up from her desk. Iris remembered her now. Her name was Zara Darvish; she specialized in translation. She maneuvered through the cramped space on crutches, apparently in order to better see the assignment map.

“Move who? Why?” said Cataldi.

“Whoever you can spare. I need someone to pick up Cody Allison’s trail of destruction. The four of them just left England.”

Cataldi stared at her. He mirrored the sign for England back to her, and she fingerspelled it.

He painstakingly spelled back: C-O-D-Y A-L-L-I-S-O-N. E-N-G-L-A-N-D. As if he hoped her answer would change. Iris confirmed with a nod.

“Berkeley has them headed to France with two kidnapped princes.” Those who had understood–Cataldi and Darvish–winced. Nobody wanted to send someone into France. “You know how slippery Allison is. It could be a misdirect–find out and tail them.”

Cataldi, Darvish, the steno, and the typist stared at her. She raised her eyebrows, and the room burst into activity. She could feel the prickle of raised voices as Cataldi and Darvish pointed at different names on the map.

Iris left them to it. As she passed the switchboard operators’ break room, she paused. The smell of tobacco drew her in. The room had mostly cleared out, but there were two women chatting over coffee and cigarettes. They both jerked to attention as Iris entered the room. Iris waved hello with a smile, but if anything, the women were put even less at ease. Iris got down a mug from the cabinet. It was pink. She poured herself a cup of coffee.

Iris looked at the two women again. She thought about asking them for a cigarette, but decided not to. Instead, she took small sips of burnt coffee and stared past them at the cabinets on the opposite wall.

Iris considered very briefly asking the two women if they’d like their palms read, then snorted into her mug. They’d plotz. Even better, nobody would believe them. Spycraft was the same, really, as fortune telling–the same skills, applied differently–except for the scale. And the stakes.

22.7 || 23.1

#story

[prairiesongserial]

22.7

Cassidy woke to the sound of footsteps on the outer deck of the boat. With a groan, they groped one hand towards the nightstand for their glasses, knocking over a half-empty gallon jug of water in the process. It bounced across the floor, thunking hollowly and probably leaking in the process, and Cassidy groaned again.

It was too early for this. The sun was barely peeking through the cabin’s curtains, which meant they were owed at least another four hours of sleep for the day.

Still, they got up and got as dressed as they felt like getting. It was impossible to find a set of clothes that matched among the piles on the floor, so they settled for the first shirt and pair of jeans they could find that passed a sniff test. The same went for socks–Cassidy found a black one draped over a stack of books, then a gray one tangled in their bedsheets, and both were clean enough, so they went on.

The floor was so cold that Cassidy could feel it even after putting on socks; unsurprisingly, the first smell that hit them on their way out onto the deck was the sharp tang of frost. The second smell that hit them was the coffee pot–the third was fishwife stench, all salt and coppery fish guts. Saoirse was here. Furthermore, she’d been brewing in their kitchen.

“You’re an absolute witch,” Cassidy said aloud.

“Careful,” she called to them, from her spot against the bow pulpit. “It’s slippery. Flurried last night.”

She was right–it had snowed enough just to make everything disgustingly wet and slick. Cassidy made a face, and ducked back into the cabin for their boots.

“You know I don’t get up this early for anything less than burglars, right?” they asked, when they reemerged.

“Yeah? You get many burglars?” Saoirse asked, craning her neck around as if she might spot one.

Cassidy rolled their eyes, found a loose cigarette in their pants pocket, and pulled it out to light it. “You’re lucky I didn’t come out with the shotgun.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t shoot me,” Saoirse said. “I’ve got news. And coffee.”

She was wearing a fleece housecoat and wellies, hair piled on top of her head in the sloppy suggestion of a bun. True to her word, she was holding two steaming mugs of black coffee, and offered Cassidy one.

“You’re bribing me,” Cassidy said, suspicious.

She arched her eyebrows. “When have I ever?”

“On a day that ends with Y when you want help scaling fish,” they muttered, but took the coffee anyway. 

It was exactly as strong as they’d hoped. Cassidy leaned over the bow pulpit next to Saoirse and sipped from the mug, waiting for her to say whatever she had to say next. She wasn’t the type to draw out the wait before she got to the point, and she didn’t.

“Something’s going on at the southern border,” she said. “You know Gwen Ellis, with the triplets?”

“Think I’ve hung her laundry before,” Cassidy said. It wasn’t exactly a service they advertised to the good people of Southend-On-Sea, but they were tall, money was money, and the housewives liked them, so there were cheese sandwiches usually.

“She was in the shop this morning picking up a couple of mackerel. Said her husband–he’s a checkpoint guard–got called west in the middle of the night last night. Some kind of all hands on deck situation.” Saoirse sipped her own coffee, looking pensive. “Imagine that–called out of your bed and made to travel forty miles, all because there are French spies in London.”

“Always something or another in London,” Cassidy said. They’d never been that far west up the Thames, but they heard enough news come out of the place to know that they didn’t want to.

Saoirse grunted her agreement. “New Queen seems proper batty. Never had to worry about spies before her.”

“What would they be spying on, anyway?”

“Got me there. Way I’ve heard it, she’s doing fuck-all, aside from looking for those missing princes.” Cassidy raised an eyebrow. Saoirse drained the last of the coffee from her mug. “Though if nobody’s seen hide or hair of ‘em in months, I’d reckon the poor lads are dead by now.”

It was a morbid thought, but probably not wrong. Cassidy made a face, stubbing their cigarette out and flicking it into the water.

“You know that’s bad for the fish,” Saoirse said.

“Fish’ve eaten worse,” Cassidy shot back at her. It was an argument they’d had before, more times than Cassidy could count. Some of the fish they caught off the pier had two heads, organs on the outside, or worse. Cigarettes didn’t do that.

Saoirse made a face at them, but didn’t push back. Instead, she peeled herself away from the bow pulpit and shoved her mug into Cassidy’s hands before making her way down the deck to where the boat was lashed to the pier.

“I’ve got to get back to the shop,” she said, over her shoulder. “Can’t leave Bevan on the register for long or the kid has a meltdown. Come by Olive’s later for a pint?”

“Don’t think I have the money for a pint,” Cassidy said, breezily.

“I’ll spot you,” Saoirse said, like Cassidy knew she would, and hopped off the boat. Cassidy watched her jog back in the direction of the shop, housecoat flapping around her, and reached into their pocket for another cigarette.

*

They’d made and eaten a breakfast of cold beans on toast, cleaned the cabin a bit, and were setting up a chair to fish from when they heard footsteps on the deck again. It was early for Saoirse to be taking another break, but the shop was within spitting distance of the pier, so maybe she wanted to bum a smoke or see how the fish were biting. Most of what Cassidy caught they sold to her, anyway.

“Forget something?” Cassidy asked cheerfully, without turning around.

The only answer they got was cold steel against the back of their neck. A long, flat blade–and sharp, too. They could feel the tip digging into their skin.

“We need your boat,” a man’s voice said, in Cassidy’s ear. He had an American accent. That was novel, among people who had threatened Cassidy with grievous bodily harm.

“Okay,” Cassidy said. “That’s not likely to happen, because this boat is my house. Why don’t you put the knife away, and we’ll discuss?”

The knife did not go away. Cassidy heard the knife-wielding maniac make a sort of impatient huffing noise through his nose.

“What my friend means,” another man said, more distantly, “is that we need a ride out of England. To, ah, Germany. Please.”

Cassidy couldn’t help it. They laughed. “Germany? Why?”

“It’s a long story,” the other man said, at the same time as the knife-wielding maniac said, “None of your business.” There was a moment of silence after that–Cassidy imagined the two looking at each other, trying to work out who was actually doing the talking here. It was almost comedic.

“Are you French spies?” Cassidy asked, mostly out of professional curiosity. They were met with a second long silence, so they tried again. “American French spies?”

“No,” the knife-wielding maniac said, finally. “Give us your boat.”

“I thought we established that’s not happening,” Cassidy said.

“I have a knife,” the knife-wielding maniac said. 

He sounded vaguely baffled by Cassidy’s response, as if he hadn’t expected this degree of pushback. He probably hadn’t. In Cassidy’s limited experience, people didn’t tend to tell you ‘no’ more than once when you had a large knife in your hands.

“Bully for you,” Cassidy said. “You know you could’ve just walked up and asked for a ride across the North Sea, yeah? You didn’t have to come up here and jump right into ‘I have a knife’.”

“We could kill them,” the knife-wielding maniac said under his breath, probably as an aside to his friend.

“I’ll scream,” Cassidy said, brightly. “They love me here. I’m sort of the town hero. Someone will hear and come running, and they’ll get a whole angry mob on you before you can get off the boat.”

It was a little bit of an exaggeration. These men didn’t have to know that. At the very least, Saoirse would probably hear a scream and come out of the shop with a big knife of her own, so Cassidy had that going for them.

“Please,” the other man said. “Will you sail us to Germany? It’s an emergency. We’ll explain. There’s just not a lot of time.”

Germany was categorically the least pleasant place on the North Sea that Cassidy could imagine sailing to. But these strangers were very insistent–which, in Cassidy’s experience, meant very willing to pay. And all the fishing boats were already out, which meant Cassidy had cornered the market.

“I’ll consider it,” they said. “If you lose the knife, and stop trying to steal my house.”

The knife retracted from their neck. Cassidy beamed.

“It’s a start,” they said, and spun around to look at their would-be kidnappers, hands planted on their hips. They nearly lost control of the situation at the sight of the two London police officers, but they rallied. “Now, let’s talk about how much I’m getting paid.”

22.6 || epilogue 22

#story

[prairiesongserial]

22.6

They borrowed a couple of motorbikes from Alys and her people to travel the tunnels with, so it was still the middle of the night when they made it to Kennington. Neither Val, John, nor the two princes had slept. Val was beginning to become used to exhaustion–he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since Maine–but he was impressed that Percy and Gawain were being good sports about it.

Alys had kept her word; one of her people had stashed a duffel bag near the tracks that contained a map with directions, a collapsible baton, a butterfly knife, a couple of rolled-up blankets, and some bottles of water. Val left the knife for John. He had reached a point of tiredness where he no longer felt it was his job to intervene if John decided to use it. Val took the baton for himself, and passed out water to the two boys as he pored over the map.

They needed to cross the water to get into Germany. Alys and Jothi had both been clear on this point–there was no getting anywhere if they couldn’t find a boat. Whoever had marked up the map had circled a town due east of Kennington called Southend-On-Sea, and one farther north called Bradwell-On-Sea. From their names alone, Val had to assume they were ports.

“East or north?” he asked John, pointing out the two towns on the map.

John considered, and said, “East looks closer. Straighter shot.”

“Only one checkpoint, too,” Val said. The checkpoints on the map had been marked in red–there was one about halfway between the station they were now at and Southend-On-Sea.

John nodded.

“Are we going on a boat?” Gawain asked, crunching the plastic of his water bottle between his grubby hands. “I’ve not been on a boat before.”

“We are,” Val said. He folded the map into the smallest square he could, and tucked it in his pocket. “But first we have to find a car.”

Getting the motorbikes aboveground would be too much effort, and he didn’t want John to keep driving, not with how badly the other man had already overexerted himself today. Val could tell that John had been suppressing winces of pain every time he put too much weight on his bad leg, or leaned into a turn on the bike–better that he rest in the passenger seat while Val drove.

“We don’t have the keys to a car,” Percy piped up. He had finished his water and was giving Gawain a boost from the tracks to the raised platform above, where Val and John had been conferring. He clambered up after his brother on his hands and knees, filthy with dirt and dust but otherwise none the worse for wear.

“I can make it run without keys,” John said. That surprised Val, but not much. “Just have to find one.”

Percy looked both satisfied and impressed by this, and he and Gawain fell into step behind John and Val as they ascended the stairs to the station’s above-ground level. Halfway to the top, the sound of voices became apparent; John motioned for everyone else to stay where they were as he crept to the landing to scout ahead. Val watched John go as still as a statue for several long moments, crouched in the doorway, until he suddenly turned around and made his way back down the stairs.

“Guards,” he said. “In uniform. Two of them.”

“Looking for us?” Val asked, hushed.

“Probably not. They don’t look like they’re searching.” John shrugged. “Maybe a regular patrol.”

“Guards have cars, usually,” Percy said.

Val and John exchanged a look.

“You two stay here a minute,” Val told the princes, reaching for the baton he’d clipped to his belt.

*

Val shifted in the driver’s seat, tugging at his newly stolen uniform pants. Both guards he and John had ambushed had been too short for him to reasonably wear their clothes, but he was making do. The jacket and cap fit well enough, and he could just pray that no one at the upcoming checkpoint asked him to get out of the car and discovered that the hems of his pants stopped well above his ankles.

The princes were asleep in the back of the car, and John sat on the passenger side, alert, eyes trained on the windshield. They had both nearly forgotten that cars drove on the other side of the road here–luckily, it was still barely verging on morning, the highway was empty, and Val had been able to course-correct without anyone seeing.

“Checkpoint’s coming up,” Val said. He had the map spread out on the dashboard, and had been occasionally cross-referencing it against the signs on the highway. Now, he pushed it towards John, who crumpled it and shoved it into the footwell.

“Checkpoint,” John said, twisting so that he could jostle the two princes. 

Percy stirred awake and seemed to understand immediately, nudging Gawain until the other boy stirred as well. Val watched in the rearview mirror as they both carefully climbed over the seats and into the trunk, taking with them the blankets they’d been resting under. With any luck, they’d be able to pass as no more than a pile of laundry.

The checkpoint approached swiftly. Val was surprised to see it was more ramshackle than he had imagined, nothing more than a chain-link gate that spanned the highway, patrolled by a single woman in uniform who looked as exhausted as Val and John. She motioned for them to slow down as they approached, and Val did, throwing the car into park and rolling down his window.

“You heard what’s going down in the city?” she asked. She was smoking a cigarette that was down nearly to the filter; the smell of it penetrated the car immediately. “Heard on the radio they want all hands to the south, fan out along the border.”

Val could make an educated guess what she was referring to, and nodded.

“That’s where we’re coming from. It’s a madhouse down there; they only just let us clock out for the night,” he said. He realized too late that he hadn’t even tried to put on an accent like most of the guards had, and decided to keep going anyway, with more confidence than he felt. “They had us patrolling in Kennington. I guess we’ll see what our marching orders are when we wake up in a couple hours.”

The guard grunted around her cigarette, then dropped it and crushed the butt under her heel. “You’re damn right to get out of there while you still can. I’m off in half an hour, and I’ll be damned if I’m driving all the way south for some spies they think are headed that way.”

Val offered her what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. John made a small noise of acknowledgement.

“Well,” the guard said, “I won’t keep you from your beds any longer’n I have to. Give me a second and I’ll get you out of here.”

She moved away from the car to roll the gate open. Val put his window back up, a little amazed. Then again, what reason would a guard have to interrogate another pair of guards going through the checkpoint–and why would she want to, this early in the morning?

He took the car out of park and eased it back into motion, rolling through the checkpoint and rapidly picking up speed once they were through, until the gate disappeared from sight in the rearview mirror. John reached into the footwell, and smoothed the map back out onto the dashboard.

“Well,” Val said, when he felt like he could breathe again. “That’s the hard part over.”

“Are we going on a boat now?” Gawain asked, from the trunk.

22.5 || 22.7

#story

[prairiesongserial]

22.5

The night sky was beginning to lighten, though it wasn’t quite three in the morning. The color was a deep, cloudless blue. Friday blinked the cold wind from her eyes and caught her breath. 

Officer Liang was the last out of the tunnels. She walked a few feet away, out of easy range, before she also stopped to catch her breath. On Friday’s other side, Cody was smiling. He couldn’t hold still, pacing in circles and tapping his fingers. Friday had already nudged him twice–they should have been pretending to mourn their dead friends. It would make things less complicated until Val and John decided it was safe to show up again.

“Well, I’ll be arresting you both now,” Officer Liang said. Friday’s gaze snapped to her as she took a hesitant step closer. Officer Liang stopped in her tracks. “I’m going to be in a lot of trouble for this,” she protested. “I wasn’t even supposed to be on duty, and they’ll have my badge for abetting if I just let you walk away.”

“We’re not going with you,” Cody laughed. “Friday, where to?”

That was a tough question. Friday didn’t want to go back to the palace; now that the palace guard had figured out she’d stolen a set of keys, the next time she wanted to break out was going to be more of a challenge. The Queen might even have them moved to a cell.

But Friday didn’t know where else to go. Val’s message had let her know he was alive and that he expected some kind of response or action from her–but she still didn’t know what she was supposed to do. She put her hands in her pockets, letting herself touch the ring Val had left on the tracks. That was part of the message, too. Somehow.

“Let me think,” Friday said. “Don’t let Officer Liang go anywhere.”

Cody smiled at Officer Liang. Officer Liang looked uneasy. Distantly, there was the tinny sound of a siren. A few moments later, Officer Liang’s portable phone buzzed like a giant, angry fly. Friday yelped and dug it out of her pocket.

She carefully answered the call, holding the phone up to Officer Liang.

“Liang, where the hell are you? We have intel that the French spies are moving to the border with the princes tonight.”

Friday raised her eyebrows at Officer Liang.

“O-oh, really?” Officer Liang said. “I’m just…I wasn’t supposed to be on duty tonight, sir, so I went out for a pint.”

“You didn’t sign out of the barracks–what the hell, I don’t have time for this. Report for assignment.”

Cody moved in close to Officer Liang. He made a vaguely threatening figure, with his holstered gun on clear display.

“Um, sir,” Officer Liang said, swallowing. “Where are the spies headed?”

Friday raised a hand to her forehead.

“What the hell are you playing at, Liang?” the commanding officer sighed.

“It’s just–I’m already in the city. So I could try to rendezvous–”

“Long damn way to go for a pint,” the officer growled. “Alright, I’ll brief you now. We lost position on Lecter and Graves after the tunnel collapse this morning–according to our intelligence, those two will be moving for the French border with the princes a little before dawn. Ours escaped at approximately midnight tonight–we don’t know what they’re planning. They might try to clear a path, they might be arranging transport.”

“You think they blew up the tunnel on purpose?” Officer Liang asked. “They could have been killed–I mean, weren’t they killed?” She looked to Friday and Cody, who’d just been crying over John’s boot an hour ago.

“Liang, as much as I would enjoy prolonging this phone conversation over tea and–if I’m being honest–a fry-up, there is the small matter of two kidnapped heads of state I’m meant to be addressing. You meet up with PGU 22 at the Blackfriars crossing and do whatever Lieutenant Wooley tells you.”

The commanding officer disconnected the call. Officer Liang looked between Friday and Cody.

“If John and Val are going back to France…” Cody began, pacing. “What does that mean? Where should we meet them? Do you think they actually have the princes, or is that bullshit?”

“I think it’s probably not ‘bullshit,’” muttered Officer Liang, not making eye contact with either of them.

Friday clasped the portable phone tightly in hand. France did make sense. Sacha knew them and was friendly enough, if only on his terms–Friday had to concede that it was probably their safest option. But why bring a couple of princes along? Friday didn’t think Val or John would work with kidnappers unless they were backed into a corner–no, not even then. Herself and Cody, they would do what needed doing in order to get out of a tight spot, but Val and John? They were working in the kids’ best interest. That, or this whole thing was a fabrication. Friday didn’t like the mention of Hemisphere she’d seen in the tunnel graffiti. She didn’t like not knowing how they fit into the picture.

“Might be bullshit,” Friday said. “But…probably not.” She turned the ring over in her pocket as she considered what to do next. She could hear the words Val had written on the wall in song, the following lines in the chant filling in as she remembered them. The chant repeated over in her head.

“Then…we should meet them in France. Let’s go?” Cody was giving her an odd look. He turned to Officer Liang. “Sorry, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

More sirens joined the first. Soon Friday couldn’t differentiate the direction any of them were coming from. They were all around, closing Friday in.

“Just…wait a second,” she said.

Cody shifted from foot to foot. Finally, he came in close, pulling Friday away from Officer Liang.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “What are you thinking?”

“I think I missed something,” she said. “Val’s message wouldn’t lead us to France. We’d have no idea where he and John are going unless someone leaked it to the palace.”

“Okay,” Cody said. “So they leaked it on purpose?”

“Maybe.” Friday pulled the ring out of her pocket and showed it to Cody. From his expression, he didn’t know what it was. She put it back in her pocket. “It’s just…part of the Good Friday service, in Latin, demanding an answer for the betrayal of Christ–that’s what he chose to leave me to let me know he was alive. And this.” She patted her pocket. “That’s not how you say ‘meet me in France.’ If anything, that’s how you say ‘the plan to abandon all hope of finding Johannes alive is still on, meet me at the Vatican.’” 

Cody raised his eyebrows at her. 

“We might have discussed ditching you two for a pilgrimage,” Friday said. “Seems like weeks ago, but it was just on the train across the English channel that we talked about it. Fuck, that’s it, isn’t it? There was a reason, besides Val being Val, to make everything so damn Catholic. He and John aren’t going to France with the princes–that’s a distraction, and a good one, since the Queen wants those princes so bad.”

Cody’s eyes moved to something behind Friday. She turned in time to catch sight of Officer Liang sprinting in the opposite direction.

“Shit,” Friday said, and followed her.

22.4 || 22.6

#story

[prairiesongserial]

22.4

“I can’t believe you’ve sold us to a pair of Americans,” Percy said forlornly. He and his brother were holding hands, walking in front with Alys, Jothi, and the man in the coats, whose name was Vijay. The younger prince was probably eight or nine; he looked over his shoulder at John with a concerned expression.

“We haven’t sold you,” Alys said. “We are considering making an alliance.”

“I thought it was decided,” Val said. He had been walking beside John, but now jogged to catch up with Alys. “If you’re not willing to take the risk yourselves–”

Alys rolled her eyes.

“And you’re dead set on going back to the palace for your friends, so it’s not worth discussing until you come back alive. Or don’t.”

“Sounds a bit like they’ve sold us,” Percy said under his breath.

John picked up his pace in spite of his strong limp, until he had caught up to the front of the group. He clamped a hand down on Val’s shoulder, using him as a crutch.

“Percy,” he said.

The prince jumped, spinning around and putting his hands up.

“What?” he said. “What do you want?”

The group stopped walking. The adults positioned themselves around John in case he did anything they didn’t like. John no longer knew what to say. He stared down at Percy. The prince was maybe thirteen or fourteen at the oldest. He glared at John, defiant, but clearly afraid of him.

“Take your brother and leave if you want,” John said finally. “If they try to stop you, I’ll kill them.”

Percy shrank back, tugging his brother behind him. John heard Alys mutter, “Jesus, this again.”

“We can take you out of the country with us,” John continued. “You’ll get farther with adults to help.” He paused. He wasn’t trying to stare Percy down, but they had ended up that way. “You choose. Where you go, who goes with you.”

“Oh,” said Percy. He looked between Alys and John. “You’re actually sort of a nice maniac. Alys, I thought we were going to France–why has the plan changed? What happened to the train?”

“We broke the train,” Val said. “By accident.”

“Okay, let’s keep walking,” Alys said. “We’re only taking you halfway. If by the grace of God you manage to get yourself back out of the palace again, we’ll leave you a sign with directions at the Kennington station. You can read?”

Val nodded.

“Good,” Alys said.

The others talked among themselves, making and changing plans. John half-listened. The farther they walked, the more he slowed down, and the more pronounced his limp became. He needed a cane. The site of the train wreck seemed three times as far away as it should have been.

A prince appeared at John’s elbow, startling him. It was the younger one.

“I’m Gawain,” he said.

John glanced from him to the rest of the group, far ahead.

“Hi,” John said.

“Percy said we’re going with you.”

John nodded. “Alright.”

“We’re not going to come back,” Gawain said. “Not ever, or else we’ll die. That’s what he said.”

Gawain gave John a stricken look, waiting for him to say something.

“Probably true,” John said.

“Are you going to take us to France?”

“Maybe.”

Gawain grew thoughtful. Ahead of them, the rest of the group had stopped. They waited for John and Gawain to catch up.

“This is as far as we’re going,” Alys said. She stood in front of a piece of graffiti. It was a portrait of a mutant with multiple arms, all pointing in different directions. John got the feeling that it was a signpost, but it was coded in a way he couldn’t interpret. John stared at it. The portrait held the fingers of each hand in different positions. That was probably the key.

“Wait,” John said.

Alys crossed her arms over her chest.

“We can’t go back,” John said. He spoke around a lump in his throat. Not going back for Cody was unthinkable.

John sensed Val’s fraying patience. He’d been fighting Val all day in order to get back here. That was before there were kids.

“You don’t think you can get them past the checkpoints,” John said to Alys. “That’s why you haven’t tried. You’re sure people will die.”

“That’s what I said,” Alys said. “And?”

“You’d let us do it, though. Even if the kids get caught in the crossfire.”

The whole group fell silent. Eventually, Alys spoke again.

“What do you want from me? Keep them here until the tunnels come down on us all?”

John stared past her at the graffiti on the wall. The Queen was currently missing two possible French spies who had collapsed a tunnel and escaped, making contact with the rebel group holding the Percy and Gawain, presumably while acting in service of the French crown. It wouldn’t be hard to confirm she’d been right about them all along. But it would put Cody and Friday in a much worse spot than they already were.

“You could make it seem like we’re going to France, when we’re actually going to the other border,” John said. “Leave signs.”

“What–Oh, you mean Germany. That’s not bad,” Jothi said. They stiffened. “Sorry, Alys. I mean, it’s not a bad idea, though, right?”

“A coded message for your friends, then? ‘Meet us in Marseilles’?” Alys drummed her fingers on her arm. “But designed to be intercepted. So the Queen moves a few pawns around, opening a path in the opposite direction.”

“But it doesn’t work if we go back for them first,” Val said. “Fuck, John. That’s–”

It would confirm that the four of them were in England as bad actors–while Cody and Friday were still trapped in the palace, possibly injured and recovering from the tunnel collapse. John was suggesting they kneecap Cody and Friday’s already narrow hopes of escape and trust the two of them to make the best of it.

“If we do this–if–we need to make sure they don’t actually try to meet us in Marseilles,” Val said. “We need to–Italy.” 

John raised an eyebrow. Val had a guilty look. 

“I talked to Friday about going to Italy–before all this. We thought we might not go to Canada after all. I think she’d get it, if I left her a hint to meet us there.” He paused. “If you’re okay with going to Italy.”

John shrugged. As long as Cody and Friday had a chance of finding them again, it was okay with him. He tried not to think about how narrow a chance it was. It didn’t matter. He’d chosen to trust Cody with his own life.

Val was still talking–wondering aloud where he should leave the hint, whether Friday and Cody had already made it around to the other side of the tunnel collapse, and if so, would they come back again. John turned his attention back to Alys and the many-armed portrait behind her. Her gaze was still cool, but there was less hostility in it.

She motioned Jothi and Vijay over with a crook of her finger and finally broke from staring at John. Alys spoke to them in a low voice as they got into specifics. The intercepted message would have to be convincing.

John returned his attention to Percy and Gawain. Percy’s brow furrowed as he followed what was going on. Gawain’s expression followed his brother’s, though he didn’t seem to know why.

Val tapped John’s shoulder.

“You’re sure about this?”

“I think it could get them killed,” John said. He might have been talking about the princes, but judging by Val’s grimace, he understood that John meant Cody and Friday. John swallowed. “Do you think we have a choice?”

Val snuck a look at the kids. A better chance of getting them out alive–now that they’d thought of it–wasn’t something they could pass up. John almost wished it hadn’t occurred to him.

“Alright,” Val said. “Stay here; I’m going to leave Friday a sign back where the train crashed. Then we can work out the rest.” He paused. “Should I write something for Cody?”

John wouldn’t know what to say. Better to leave things at champagne in the train compartment, if they had to leave things for now.

John shook his head.

22.3 || 22.5

#story