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Strangers don’t walk into D’s bar very often. But one night, a stranger shows up. Something about him seems familiar. Reminds her of her past. And just might threaten her future.

“The Trendy Bar Side of Life” is available on this website for one week only. If you want your own copy, head to WMG Books, or pick it up from any of your favorite retailers.

The Trendy Bar Side of Life Kristine Kathryn Rusch

 

I tend bar, not in one of those upscale things that serve weird drinks with funny names, where everyone comes after work for a nanosecond while the bar’s the hot spot and then move on when someplace else becomes trendy.

Nope. I tend bar in one of the old dives that still exist in neighborhoods, the kind that no sane person would enter without an invitation, and that invitation only comes from the universe. You know, you lose your job, your wife walks out, your friends tell you to stop whining, so you pass the dive bar you’d never think of entering when you’re on the trendy bar side of life.

You walk in, see the decrepit unshaven guy sitting at the edge of the bar, a woman nursing a piss-colored beer at a table that hasn’t balanced since 1970, and one of those lighted bubbling beer signs for a brand that got discontinued when you were a kid. You doubt the bar’s been cleaned since then, either, although none of the surfaces you touch are sticky or dirty or dust-covered. The place is just so old that the dirt and the now-banned cigarette smoke are embedded into the walls.

I’ve worked in that kind of bar since the night Ronald Reagan got re-elected, the night I decided to chuck it all and walk into one of those bars myself. Only I walked in, wearing a suit with a lace collar, bow-tie untied, and heels so high they looked like fuck-me-shoes instead of what they really were, which was the required business attire of the day.

Yeah, I’m a woman. Yeah, you’re excused if you have no idea. Most people don’t know until I open my mouth, and some aren’t sure even then. They see the shaved head, the muscular fat, the T-shirt with ripped sleeves, and the bicep tattoos and think “man.” They ignore the studs outlining the rim of my ears, the delicate chain around my neck that ends in a tear-drop diamond, and the breasts which, granted, are a bit underwhelming, even with the extra fifty pounds I’ve gained since that horrid night.

This isn’t my bar, even though folks think it’s my bar. They never see Bancroft, the owner, who, let’s be honest, hasn’t crossed the threshold since his first AA meeting in 1991. He calls me on the landline when he’s coming by (he doesn’t have a cell), stops his Hog in the alley near the garbage cans so he can’t smell the piss and stale beer from the back door, and makes me hand him the books (on paper), the cash, and the hard drive backup which, in theory, he takes to the accountant, because Lord knows, a man who doesn’t like cell phones doesn’t like computers either.

Bancroft tells me I can do what I want with the place. I can redecorate. I can expand to the empty storefront next door (which he also owns). I can start making trendy drinks.

He doesn’t care, so long as the bar makes money.

I’m afraid if I alter a damn thing, the money will vanish, and if the money vanishes, then I actually have to confront a few things, like why I work in a dive bar in a redneck neighborhood, why I have the same conversations that I’ve had weekly for thirty years with the same people, and why even I’ve started to look at strangers with suspicion because, y’know, they don’t belong in this bar.

Which is how I look at the new guy when he staggers in. Maybe twenty-five, pretty in a sexually ambiguous kinda way, collar open, shirt askew, tie completely gone. He’s walking like something hurts, like a woman does when the high heels she’s worn all day hurt not just her feet, but her back as well. Only he’s not wearing high heels. His dress shoes are stained on top, but the sides shine.

He gingerly climbs onto a bar stool in the very center of the horseshoe bar and if I weren’t paying attention to him, I’d assume he was being prissy—worrying that the seat wasn’t clean enough for the black silk pants that matched the shiny black silk suit coat.

I slap a bar napkin in front of him, and he jumps. Then he looks at my hand, resting on that bar napkin, as if he’s never seen a hand before.

I frown. And, for once, I modulate my tone so I don’t sound actively hostile.

“You want something?”

He raises his head, but his eyes don’t meet mine. “I don’t know. Jesus. A drink.”

Normally, I’d say, You are in a bar, buddy, but I don’t. Instead, I look closer at him. His hair’s spikey, and I don’t think that’s style. Either a bruise is forming along his chin or something has smudged there.

“Ah…beer,” he says, then shakes his head. “Um, no. Whiskey. Brandy. Something that burns.”

“Beer, whiskey or brandy,” I say. “Which do you want?”

“Jack,” he says. “Just give me some Jack.”

I pour him a Jack Daniels, and set the glass in front of him. He’s already torn up the bar napkin. There’s dirt under his fingernails.

His manicured fingernails.

He leans over the drink like he doesn’t recognize it. I get another glass, and fill it with ice water, and set that in front of him, on a coaster this time, with a bar napkin beside it.

He doesn’t even look up. I’m not sure he notices.

My own mouth is dry. I look around the bar, to see who’s here. The same crowd is here day to day, so sometimes I don’t really notice who’s in the bar and who’s not. And I haven’t noticed until now.

Ma Kettle sits in her favorite booth, her gray wig askew, and her sweatshirt food-stained. Her real name is Cora Kattleman, but I think I’m the only one who knows that, and only because she opened her tab with a credit card fifteen years ago. Everyone calls her Ma Kettle at her insistence, and most folks don’t even know the reference, a clichéd but popular hillbilly movie character from the 1940s and 50s.

But then, no one thinks about the nicknames. Most of us in this place have one, and we use it instead of our real names. It’s easier that way.

Ma Kettle comes in at noon, every day, and sits in her booth. I set the first vodka tonic in front of her, and maybe by the fifth, she’ll say hello. She doesn’t talk much, mostly watches the TV, which I have on mute, and stares at nothing.

She hasn’t seen the guy.

And no one else is here, although Rick Winters should come in at any moment. His shift ends at 3:30, and he usually rolls in here by 3:35.

Just me, Ma Kettle, and the new guy, who hovers over his drink like he’s about to puke.

The sleeve of his suit is split at the shoulder, and the silk in the back looks smudged, like silk does when it has encountered liquid it doesn’t like.

I’m shaking, just a little. I’ve been there. I’ve literally been there, right here, at this bar, in ripped clothes, aching all over, staring at a drink I don’t want, but not sure what else I can do.

Turning point: Last night of my professional life. Last night of my all-important career. Last night of ain’t-she-cute.

That’s how I know he wasn’t in a fight. Oh, he might’ve fought. But one of those knock-em-down, drag-em-out fights? Naw. Right now, everything’s scraped and raw and coming in images. He’s not thinking clear, and I don’t blame him.

I also don’t lean toward him to talk.

Bancroft leaned in that night, thirty-two years ago, and probably scared a decade off of me. I still have nightmares about that moment, and jump whenever Bancroft leans toward me. Not his fault, but he got roped into those images, those memories.

So this afternoon, I slide the ice water toward the new guy and say, “Did you know him?”

The new guy’s hand shakes as he grabs the whiskey glass. His knuckles are scraped and his thumb is swollen and it hangs funny. It might be broken.

“Whatever you think you know,” he starts in a tone that puts me, a bartender, back into my lower-class place, “it’s wrong.”

His voice wobbles on the word “wrong,” and he swallows hard.

Naw. I’m not wrong. He wants me to be wrong. He doesn’t want me to see him at all, and I see too clearly.

Like Bancroft had with me. I’d said to Bancroft, Piss off, asshole. Let me drink in peace.

And he’d said, I don’t think you’re going to find peace tonight.

I don’t know what to say now. I know what not to say. So I go for short and succinct, flat tone, as if I don’t care. And I do care, even though I don’t want to.

“You want that thumb to keep working, you’ll need to see a doctor,” I say. I don’t say anything about his private parts, which’ve got to be just as bruised. Maybe more bruised. Maybe more than bruised.

I don’t want to scare him away.

Now his eyes meet mine. They’re brown, two shades darker than his skin. They’re also watery, and his lower lip is trembling.

“No,” he says in a tone that adds, Back off.

I shrug, grab the bar rag and toss it over my shoulder. It smells of the vinegar solution we use to wipe down the back area. I walk away, keeping my eye on the guy in the gigantic mirror behind the expensive alcohol.

He starts to pick up the whiskey, grimaces, and keeps the glass on the bar. That thumb is the size of a dying balloon. With his other hand, he grabs the ice water. The glass shakes as he raises it to his lips. Some of the water drips onto his expensive suit.

The door bangs open. The new guy jumps and spills more water. Rick Winters stomps in and slams the door behind himself. That takes some doing, because I got the door on one of those slow swings, just so no one can slam it.

Rick looks older than he should—balding, a growing beer belly, and a whole lotta attitude. He’s staving off burnout by spending the afternoons here, but he doesn’t have much longer. Every day for the last six months, he’s come in mad.

I open a Heineken and set it at his usual spot on the bar, on the left side of the horseshoe, back to the door. He looks at the new guy.

“What’s the story?” Rick asks, with an edge.

I shrug. I don’t ask for stories. Rick should know that. It’s one reason he comes here. The relief bartender, who usually works weekend days, came in for me one afternoon, asked Rick what had him so pissed off, and got to hear the entire story about a five-car pile-up on the Expressway, which started with the sentence, Fucking drunk drivers, and ended with, and of course, the asshole drunk walked away.

Rick might be a drunk himself, but the minute his fingertips touch a green longneck, he doesn’t go near a vehicle. He says 90 percent of the shit he deals with as an EMT occurs because someone who had too much to drink gets behind a wheel or punches the wife or plays with a gun. Rick says he needs to haul his ass to AA, but he’s not ready.

He’ll be ready when he quits the job. He’s not suited. It’s not the drunks he objects to. It’s all the blood.

Rick’s fingers haven’t touched the bottle. He’s still looking at the new guy. “Pretty messed up.”

“Yeah,” I say, not willing to add that I’d mentioned a doctor already.

“It’s probably none of our damn business,” Rick says.

“It usually isn’t,” I say, and wipe off an imaginary spot on the bar near that Heineken. Ma Kettle pounds her glass on the table—a sign that I haven’t been doing my job: I usually anticipate her drinking needs—and then there’s a large clatter and bang behind me.

I whirl in time to see the new guy’s head slide off the bar. He’d knocked over his water and his whiskey when he passed out. He would’ve fallen all the way to the floor, but somehow Rick levitates from his place at the end of the bar and runs to the new guy’s side, catching him before he bangs his head again on the nearby stool.

“Shit,” Rick mutters. “Shit.”

At first, I think he’s commenting on working after hours, at dealing with some drunk. We’d done it a hundred times, dragging some idiot to a chair where we throw water in his face, pick his pocket for his wallet and address, and call him a ride home.

Then I realize that Rick isn’t looking at the guy or where he’s dragging the guy to. He’s looking at the bar stool.

He picks up the guy as if he weighs nothing, and swings him toward the door. Liquid drips—I’m thinking whiskey, when my brain registers the viscosity.

Blood.

The guy surfaces, looks up, sees Rick holding him, and screams. I’ve never heard a sound like that, raw and pain-filled, and completely anguished.

“Call Mercy General,” Rick says. “Tell them I’m bringing in a guy. I’ll radio.”

The guy claws at him, moaning now, kicking, trying to get free.

“You got your rig?” I ask. I’ve only seen it once, that ambulance he drives like it’s a tank.

“No, not that it matters. I got a radio in my truck.” Then Rick backs him out the door, and the guy screams again.

The sound fades as the door bangs closed.

“Jesus,” Ma Kettle says. “High drama.”

Then she holds up her glass.

I pour her another vodka tonic, just because it’s easier than fighting with her. I carry the vodka tonic around the bar, and head toward her, careful to step over the blood trail.

In one move, I take the old glass and set the new one down on the wet bar napkin. It’s a sign of how distraught I am that I haven’t brought a new napkin. Automatic movements and all that.

I turn, look at my bar from the customer’s point of view. A thin line of blood drips off the new guy’s stool. How had I missed that?

I look at the door, see only a blood trail leading out. Either he hadn’t been bleeding that bad when he came in, or the blood disappears in the general ambience of the place.

Here’s what I can do: I can call the cops, let them treat this place like part of a crime scene, not that it is a crime scene. It’s a crime scene aftermath. Technicalities and all that. I can leave it or I can clean up.

The cops’ll come here anyway. Mercy General will have to run a rape kit. Rick’ll insist on it, and because he’s there, he’ll file, as an EMT on the scene. Whether or not the new guy presses charges, well, that’s up to him.

Considering how he was sitting for so long in so much pain, considering how he didn’t want a doctor in the first place, considering that suit, that condescending tone, he’s not going to want cops involved. Hell, women don’t want cops involved, and it’s quote-unquote normal for a woman to get raped.

Guys, well, they’ve got even more stigma to overcome. Not just with the cops, but in their own head.

I go to the back, grab the fluids bucket, the oldest mop, and some bleach. At least three times a month, I clean blood off my floor. I’m damn good at it, after thirty years.

I can make anything disappear.

Except the memory of what came before.

That memory never leaves.

***

“He won!”

Confetti, balloons, hotel grand ballroom doing double-duty—half a party for the Reagan-Bush Re-election Campaign, the other half for Senator Dwight Corbin. Red, white, blue, the posters with their exclamation points and patriotic lettering lining the walls, including the stupid one, the one that always stopped me short—Ronald Wilson Reagan painted to look decades younger despite the wrinkles on his face, almost Norman Rockwell, an American flag behind him, an unrecognizable George H.W. Bush looking off to the side, and the slogan “Bringing American Back!” which always, always made me ask, “Bringing America back to what?”

If I’d been working national campaign instead of state campaign, I’d’ve advised against the slogan. I mean, after all, hadn’t Ronald Reagan been president for four years already? Bringing America back from the brink? Because we felt like we were on the brink: I just didn’t trust Mondale to do anything except flap his gums.

I was a great operator back then, a better operator for Reagan than Senator Corbin, although Corbin’s campaign shared me once everyone figured out just how well I could handle the press. Didn’t need a lot of press for the re-election campaign—they’d send their flunkies in when the President came to town, which ended up being all of three times. Needed lots of press for Corbin because he was young, because he was new, and because he was dumb as rocks.

I wasn’t really grooming him for a national senate seat or even governor once he finished with his state term. I was grooming me for the day when women in politics became more than a curiosity or a curious screw-up, like Mondale’s Veep Ferraro, whose husband cocked everything up, the way husbands always do.

So, celebrating, drinking, confetti in my hair—hell, confetti everywhere, including my hoo-ha when it was all said and done. I still don’t see confetti as anything but evil, even now.

The rest of the memory gets lost in campaign Sousa marches and cheers of “he won!” and laughter, lots of laughter. The laughter bleeds into everything, like clown laughter in a bad horror film, and then the lights get dim, and there’s a bed involved, one of those pasty hotel beds in one of those gold upscale rooms, and I’m holding champagne, and then I’m not, and I stand in the bathroom, aching everywhere, pulling confetti out of my hair and wondering if my lips look bruised.

I paste myself back together, adjust the suit coat, leave the stupid bow-tie undone (who thought of bow-ties for women, anyway?), finger comb my blond curls, wash off my face and ignore my shaking hands.

Then I walk out the door, go back before it closes, grab my purse, leave again, and look at the elevator, think: maybe he’s in the elevator. Think: maybe people’ll wonder why I’m in the elevator. Think: they’ll want me back in the ballroom. Think: screw the ballroom, and walk to the stairs, conscious that I’m limping a little.

I blame the shoes. Even in my memory, I blame the shoes—too high, too pointed, too tottery. But really, that year, I lived in extra-high-heels, showing off my calves, my thighs, my ass, because you could go miles with the male operatives if you distracted them with some cleavage and a hint of sex.

That’s what I was thinking as I walked down the steps. My fault. Cleavage, hint of sex, only a matter of time. Reached the lobby, didn’t go out that way, went down one more flight to the parking garage, only it wasn’t a parking garage, it was the basement, a nearly empty function space that I hadn’t seen, and a door marked exit that I walked through to an alley that meandered like I was, until I found our street, this bar, one drink, and Bancroft saying I don’t think you’re going to find peace tonight.

But I did. Peace and oblivion, not in bottles, like Bancroft those first six years. But in the work. The mindless work. I cleaned up after him, tended bar when he couldn’t, slept in the back room because, hand-to-God, I didn’t want to walk outside again, and I didn’t, not that I noticed anyway, until someone (Bancroft?) told me the hotel’d gone bankrupt and the building was empty, and it was the last bastion of the Great Downtown, and it was finally, finally going away.

Thought of torching it myself. Instead, meandered up that alley, stared at the broken windows, the steel door, the now-faded glory, thought: Serves you right, you bitch, and wasn’t sure if I was talking to the hotel, or to me, or to the world in general.

Then turned around and headed back to the bar, but first, stopped in the barbershop half a block away, and when they wouldn’t shave my head, grabbed the electric razor and started it myself. Lots of screaming, lots of Don’t do it, honey, and I was wondering where the hell they were years before, when someone should’ve screamed (me, maybe?) and someone should’ve said Don’t do it, honey (me again?) and someone should’ve yanked his hand away, like they yanked the razor out of mine. But Gus, the barber, finished the shave, told me to go buy a wig, said, At least you got one of them perfect skulls, and I looked in the mirror, liked what I saw, none of that you’re-too-cute-to-work-in-politics-sweetheart, not any more. Looked more like a Star Trek alien than the girl next door.

Took another year to get the tattoos. By then, the extra fifty I carried took away the cute as effectively as the hair. Stopped watching the news, stopped voting, stopped thinking about politics at all. Mostly listened to my drunks repeat the same stories over and over, finding comfort in their miserable little lives, happy that those lives weren’t mine, happy that I had a place and some usefulness and that sense I belonged, even if daylight had become foreign and the stench of stale beer normal.

I’da kept going too, if the blood didn’t remind me, if the blood didn’t—

***

Ah hell, it wasn’t the blood. It was the look on the new guy’s face, that shell-shocked, not-me-look I’d seen in the mirror too many times, the dirt (blood) under the fingernails, the way he jumped when my hand got too close.

His wallet sits on the bar, drenched in whiskey, and I pick it up, wrap it in a towel, and put it in the safe. And I think about it, through the long normal night, like the wallet’s a talisman, thinking, thinking as Ma Kettle expounds drunkenly on her latest theory about toll ways and city streets, as Screwy Marcus and The Donster argue about next year’s playoffs, and as five guys, fresh from their weekly basketball game, stop in on their way home.

Rick never comes back though, and I wonder if tonight’s the night he finally gets clean. Then I wonder if the new guy died, and Rick couldn’t deal. And then I wonder why I should care about either of them.

But the wallet…it calls me and calls me and calls me, and I know I can’t keep it forever. I wait until closing, when The Donster does his chivalric thing and offers (like he does every night) to walk Ma Kettle home, and she refuses, and he does it anyway, and they pretend like it’s something new.

I lock the door, open the safe, and pull out the wallet.

It’s calf leather, black, and stained now, not just from the whiskey, but probably from blood. That doesn’t gross me out. After tending bar for thirty-some years, nothing grosses me out, although behaviors often disgust me.

I take the wallet to the office, which has better lighting, and turn on the overhead, along with the gooseneck lamp that probably curved over the desk since the bar’s founding. I set the wallet on a wad of paper towels, even though I know I’m going to clean up the desk anyway. Bleach is a marvelous thing.

I flip the wallet open, see gold cards, platinum cards, and at least five hundred dollars cash. Tucked in both sides of the cash flap are business cards, two wads of them, one white and one a light blue. I pull out the business cards first, expecting to see that he had organized a pile of them.

Instead, I see two different cards for the same man: A.D. “Andy” Santiago. One card, the blue one, with somewhat archaic type, lists his job as “consultant,” along with an email address and a phone number.

The white card has a red-white-and-blue logo on the front. The logo’s for the Jeff Davis For Senate campaign, and I damn near drop the card. I don’t like coincidence. Politics and rape and this bar. Thirty years apart, but still.

I glance at the driver’s license. Yep. A.D. Santiago is the owner of the wallet, the guy who stumbled into my bar, the man who looked like I had all those years ago.

Only we got him to the hospital. Bancroft never took me.

I make myself cling tighter to the white card, bending it slightly, and I focus on it. I focus on the now. In the lower left, the card reads Andy Santiago, Media Relations, along with a different phone number and a different email address from the other card.

This one’s newer, but I would have known that just from the campaign itself. Jeff Davis is in a dead heat with some other candidate whose name I can’t recall. The only reason I know Davis’s name is because of the billboards plastered on the Expressway, accusing him of living up to his namesake Jefferson Davis, former president of the Confederacy.

Want to go back to 1861? the billboards ask. They have a Confederate flag as a backdrop. Vote Jeff Davis For Senate.

Every once in a while, my old calling catches me, and I have thoughts I can’t bury. Like who the hell thought that was a good campaign slogan? It doesn’t even name the candidate running opposite Jeff Davis, although, in fairness, who would want her name on a billboard like that?

I shake myself from the reverie, know I mentally walked that way because of the shock of seeing that poor A.D. “Andy” Santiago is a political operative just like I was.

And then he ended up here.

I slip both cards into my back pocket, clench my fist to stop my hand from shaking, and dig through the wallet a little more. The address on Santiago’s driver’s license is eight blocks from here, on a street that was gentrified ten years ago.

The money’s coming back to the neighborhood, as I mentioned to Bancroft a while ago. At some point, we’re going to have to upscale the bar or sell it. He doesn’t want to sell it: Bancroft doesn’t like change. But that was when he gave me permission to remodel the place.

Bancroft isn’t the only one who doesn’t like change.

And I force my mind back to the wallet. I recognize the way my thoughts wander when there’s something in front of me that brings up my past. Only now, I want to face it, and I’m finding that as hard as running away from it.

I write the address down, then fold the wallet back up and carry it, wrapped in paper towels back to the bar. I pull out a plastic sandwich bag from the stack I use for leftover garnish, and slip the wallet inside.

Then I sigh. Crunch time.

I can keep it here until someone comes for it. I can take it to the police. Or I can take it to the hospital.

I glance at the ancient clock emblazoned with the Christmas Budweiser Clydesdales in the snow. It’s quarter past eleven. We don’t stay open past midnight on weeknights: there’s no point.

It’s past visiting hours at the hospital, not that I want to look in on this guy. But it’s still early enough that someone on the staff with half a brain would be there, who would be able to trace the John Doe that Rick Winters brought in.

If Santiago registered as a John Doe. He seemed pretty out of it when Rick carried him out of here, but Santiago had been conscious. He might’ve used his name.

I slip the wallet in its baggy in the canvas tote I call a purse, grab my leather jacket, toss them both over a chair, and go through my lockup routine. I have to follow the same routine, day in and day out, or I forget something.

When you do the same thing for decades, you zone out as you do it, and I’m no exception. Books balanced. Pour count entered. Cash in the safe in my office, receipts printed and tallied. Computers shut down. Lights dimmed. Bar gleaming.

Purse and jacket over my arm, check to see if the front door’s locked. Yep. Make sure the window bars are secure. Yep. Head to the back, set the alarm, let myself out, and lock up.

Alley smells of vomit again, with a bit of piss mixed in. Supposed to rain tonight, so the smell should be gone by morning. I step gingerly past any puddles, note that the garbage is particularly rancid as well, happy that the pickup arrives before I do tomorrow.

I slip my purse over my shoulder, my jacket over the entire thing, keys in hand, heart pounding like it always does—as if I expect some sex-crazed asshole to jump me in the 20 feet between the bar’s back door and the parking lot. Me, round and muscled. Me, who took so many self-defense courses that I can lay out a 250-pound drunk with a well-placed shove to the chest. Me, who hasn’t had anyone look at her sideways in maybe fifteen years.

But every night, sure as I lock up, I also talk myself down from the panic, remind myself just how safe I am, remind myself that the asshole who changed the course of my life wasn’t some random sex-crazed idiot with a hard-on, he was one of the best known politicians in the state, and goddamn if I shouldn’t’ve enjoyed his attentions because, after all, he spent some of his precious time with me.

That’s why I’m shaking. He’s still well known. Hell, he’s better known. And he’s not just in the legislature. He’s running it.

And he’s hoping to fill it with men like Jeff Davis, hoping to bring the world back to 1861. Just because I think the slogan’s bad politics for the opposition doesn’t mean I think the slogan’s wrong.

My vehicle’s the last one in the parking lot, just as it always is. Usually, I look at my black F-150 and smile, thinking Built Ford Tough because damned if I don’t need a vehicle that’s tough and protective, since I’m still on my own.

But this night, I scan the perimeter, like I always do, then I unlock the truck and get inside, locking back up immediately. I don’t feel safe. I don’t feel unsafe. I feel jangly, a little outside my own body, as if I’m not in complete control.

Maybe the fact that I’m not in complete control is how I ended up at Jeff Davis’s campaign headquarters. I realized I was driving there halfway down a side street I don’t normally drive on.

Campaign headquarters are never on the beaten path. They’re not places voters go to. Campaign headquarters are places to keep voters out of.

I expected this one to have one light burning and a few die-hard true believers, all under the age of twenty-five, to be shuffling papers and manning the phones. Shows how 1980s my campaign memories are, because when I pull up, the entire place is lit up. Yellow light, not pasty fluorescents, illuminates everything behind the glass windows, initially designed for a long-dead retail establishment.

Inside, people talk, exchange papers, lots of papers, and stare at computer screens, which adds even more ambient light. And yes, everyone seems to be under twenty-five—and well-dressed. No hoodies and ripped jeans, no T-shirts and old jeans, no jeans at all. Open-collar dress shirts, suit coats on the backs of chairs, matching pants which fit well—and everyone thin, or at least, thinner than the average American.

Enthusiastic, well-dressed, thin—jeez, it looks more like a movie set than an actual campaign headquarters.

I can’t help myself. I pull the truck over, park behind a Prius and feel tempted to go all Monster Truck on its ass. I ignore the thought and what it means (okay, yeah, I’m pissed, but I’m generally pissed, so what’s it matter?), grab my giant purse and let myself out.

I can’t do innocent anymore, although I’m tempted. I almost revert to Girl Operator, the one who died, along with her blond curls and her innocence.

Instead, I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. No Girl Operator. Instead, Bad-Ass Bartender. Or, maybe, Concerned Friend.

As I walk down the sidewalk, I try on Concerned Friend for good measure. Won’t work. Everyone in the headquarters knows Andy Santiago, and I don’t. Can’t do Bad-Ass Bartender either. Don’t have my bar, blocking me from the fighting customers. Don’t have my baseball bat for minor scuffles. Don’t have my gun for major ones.

Just me, short, squat, bald and tattooed. Big, and muscled, and unexpectedly female.

That should surprise the little shits working to take us back to 1861.

I pull open the campaign office door and, of all things, a bell jingles above me. Conversation ceases. Everyone looks up, a sea of white surprised faces. I remember this now from my years in campaign headquarters:

Alert! Stranger in our midst! Reporter? Spy? Civilian? Volunteer?

Only it’s nearly midnight. Who the hell comes into a campaign headquarters at midnight?

I let the door bang behind me. No one approaches me, although someone should. There should be some flunky in charge, even this late at night.

Computers hum in the silence. No one moves, as if I’ve caught them selling drugs or laundering money. I’m not real fond of standing here, either.

So I meet their gazes, slowly, one at a time, acknowledging them. An I-see-you action that I learned in self-defense class. It works with drunks who’re acting up all the way across the room.

Once I’ve met everyone’s gaze, I say, “I was told I could find Andy Santiago here.”

In the back of the room, two women glance at each other. Another woman stands up. As she draws closer, I see that she’s a little older than the others.

“What do you want with Andy?” she asks.

“It’s personal,” I say.

“Uh-huh,” she says in a tone that says I-don’t-believe-you.

“He’s not at his place,” I say, “and he’s not answering his cell. So, a friend said to try here.”

Those women glance at each other again. Someone titters in the back.

“You think this is funny?” I ask in my driest voice. “I’m looking for someone. I was told you people could help. Can you?”

The woman glares in the direction of the titter. Then she looks back at me. Her makeup has faded on the right side of her face, as if she’s been resting her hand there, and the makeup came off.

“Can’t help,” she says. “He’s not part of this campaign any longer.”

“Really?” I ask. “Since when? Because he was still handing out your business cards a few days ago.”

Her too-red lips thin. “We parted ways this afternoon.”

He showed up in my bar this afternoon.

“Over what?” I ask.

“That’s personal,” she says.

“Huh,” I say. “Because he worked for you. So that should be business.”

One of the young men in front of me leans back in his chair. His mouth twists sideways. I think maybe he’s trying to smile derisively. It’s not working.

“We don’t have any room for Log Cabin Republicans,” he says.

“Jordy,” the woman cautions.

He glares at her. “It’s true. That’s what Jeff—”

“We parted ways,” the woman says. “It turns out that Andy’s agenda was different from ours.”

I smile, and I know my smile works. “Log Cabin Republicans,” I say. “Is he a card-carrying member of that particular organization, or are you rocket scientists labeling him that because you just figured out that he’s gay?”

“He’s not gay,” one of the women from the back says.

“Stop,” the woman in charge says. “This is no one’s business but ours.”

The woman in the back stands up. “Andy’s not gay—”

“Yeah, right,” says the guy in front of me.

“But he believes in equality for everyone. He’s been pushing—”

“An agenda that’s not consistent with the Davis campaign,” the woman in charge says over her. “So we told him to take his services elsewhere.”

The woman in the back is looking at me. She’s maybe 21, with long blond hair, and the kind of cute that’ll get her dismissed in politics.

I should know.

“Two weeks before the election?” I ask. “That’s bit odd, isn’t it?”

“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” the woman in charge asks.

“Actually, no,” I say. “I used to do your job, though, a long time ago in a land faraway.”

She looks me up and down, making it clear without saying a word that a woman like me could never have run a position of authority in a campaign. Funny, I used to get dismissed because I was little and cute. And now that I’m neither, I get dismissed for being the kind of person who’s too militant to ever be taken seriously.

“Well,” she says, “be that as it may, Andy’s not here, he’s not going to be here, he’s not ever coming back, and we have no idea how to reach him. So you have no reason to stay here.”

“And no reason to vote for Jeff Davis either, apparently, considering how nice and cooperative his staff is.”

“It’s midnight,” she says. “What did you expect?”

“It’s midnight,” I say, “and someone’s concerned about Andy. I would have expected some compassion, and maybe a little help.”

No one responds. I look at each of their faces again, as if I’m memorizing them. A number of the staff won’t look at me this time. The young woman in the back, the only one who spoke to me, glances at the woman in charge.

She doesn’t say anything. She’s still glaring at me.

I want to say Thanks for nothing, but that sounds childish, even in my head. So I just turn around and leave. I hear someone lock the door behind me.

I know if I turn around, I’ll see a few faces pressed against the glass, watching me go.

Strangely, that sense I had, that jittery not-quite-in-control sense is gone. And so is the underlying panic that I usually feel in a strange neighborhood. You’d think it would be worse here, but it’s not.

I get in the truck and sigh. I glance at the clock on the dash. Maybe I can get the wallet to someone who knows Andy Santiago at the hospital desk, but I think that’s a true maybe. The other maybe is whether or not I should go home—

A knock on the driver’s side window startles me. I swallow a scream, then curse myself. I still haven’t learned how to scream for help. Eight self-defense classes, and screaming still doesn’t come naturally to me.

I turn, and see the face of that young woman, the one who spoke out of turn, looking up at me. She had to reach up to hit the window with the knuckles of her right hand.

She’s not wearing a coat. Her arms are wrapped around her torso and she’s shifting from foot to foot as if she’s cold.

I lower the window, and don’t say anything.

“Why do you need to find Andy?” she asks.

“He left his wallet at my place,” I say, which is trueish, “and he’s not answering his phone,” which is probably true as well.

“Oh,” she says. “I thought maybe….”

I wait.

Her face scrunches up and she takes a deep breath. “He’s okay then?”

“I can’t reach him,” I say, as if that’s an answer. “That’s unusual for a man like him.”

She sighs a little. Bites her upper lip, glances over her shoulder.

“They walked him out,” she says. “Jordy and three other guys. And it didn’t look friendly.”

I don’t interrupt.

“I’m worried about him,” she says and her voice breaks. She seems to be telling the truth. She looks over her shoulder again. Then she adds, “I left my stuff in there. I—they’ll—would you walk me back?”

Is she kidding me? After she just told me that four men marched Santiago out of the building, and he ended up raped and beaten? Do they think I’m that dumb? Or do they think she’s so appealing that she’s going to be bait I would fall for?

I have no idea where that thought came from, but as soon as it crossed my mind, it made me angry.

“No,” I say.

Her lower lip trembles. She frowns prettily, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Bad-Ass Bartender doesn’t really exist outside of the bar, apparently.

“Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll back up, park in front of your headquarters, and watch as you go in. If anything goes wrong—”

“Forget it,” she says, voice plumy with tears. “I can handle it myself.”

She stomps away, then pauses just for a moment as if marshaling courage. It’s that little movement that catches me. I wheel the truck around and park across the street.

She sees me, then turns her head away.

She goes inside the headquarters. Everyone watches her, like they watched me. No one says anything.

They watch her walk to the back, grab her purse, a laptop bag, and a coat, and then the woman stops her near the door.

The girl isn’t bait. She’s genuinely scared. And I treated her badly.

I look around the neighborhood, then get out of the truck. I shove the keys in my pocket, and walk to the door, keeping my eye on the girl and the woman. They’re arguing.

I pull the door open—apparently she left it unlocked—and say, “You fired her for talking to me?”

They all look at me now.

The girl’s face is pale. “I quit, actually.”

She can’t lie to save herself. That’s so different from me at that age. I was the queen of liars. That’s how I got and kept my job.

“And I’m leaving,” the girl says, pulling the laptop bag away from the other woman.

“The laptop is ours,” the woman says.

“The laptop is mine,” the girl says. “My personal laptop. I never ever used yours. I don’t like linked networks.”

“It has our work product on it,” the woman says.

I know where this conversation is going, and I don’t like it.

“So hire a lawyer,” I say to the woman. Then I extend my arm to the girl. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

Her look is both startled and grateful.

The Jordy kid stands up. He’s taller than me, younger than me, dumber than me. Even though he’s not drunk, I probably have fifty IQ points and a whole lotta living on him. And I can put him down with a shove to the chest.

Only he doesn’t know that.

“She’s not leaving,” he says.

“What’re you going to do?” I ask. “Hold her hostage?”

I waggle my fingers at the girl, and she runs toward me. I hold the door open, watching everyone, Jordy, the woman, the other workers still at their seats.

The other girl in the back, the one who had exchanged glances with the one heading to my truck, she’s gone too. I hope she went out a back exit, and isn’t just in the ladies room.

But she’s not my problem. I’m neither cop nor superhero.

“You people are something else,” I say, then follow the girl outside.

She’s standing on the sidewalk, shivering.

“Do you have a car?” I ask, thinking maybe the Prius is hers.

She shakes her head. “I took the bus.”

Worse than a Prius, then. A True Believer, who can’t afford a vehicle. True Believers go all Ninja Avenger when they lose their cherry and discover their candidate is an ass and a cad. (They’re all asses and cads, at minimum. Often they’re crooks and egomaniacs too.)

If she has writing skills, she’s going to blog.

If she doesn’t, she’s going to cause other troubles, and the problem is that the woman inside that campaign headquarters knows it.

“I’ll drop you,” I say to the girl.

She glances at me, then at the people inside. I can almost read her thoughts. She’s having two of them. The first: They’re going to think that I’m connected to this woman. And the other comes from a much younger, much more vulnerable place: I’m not supposed to get in a car with strangers.

The girl takes a deep breath, then nods. We cross the street to my truck, and using the remote access, I unlock the door. I’m getting into a car with a stranger, too, something I haven’t done in more than thirty years.

Not that my problems have ever come from strangers.

“I’m D,” I say after we’re both inside the truck. I don’t explain that “D” is short for “Blondie,” which was what the patrons used to call me before I got rid of the hair. Then they called me “Baldie,” and all I could hear over the noise of the jukebox was the hard “d,” so I took on the name.

“Laney,” she says, her voice still shaking. She’s glancing out the window as if she expects Jordy and his friends to follow us.

I start the truck and put it in gear in one swift movement. “I take it you like Andy.”

“He’s a lot of fun,” she says, “and he’s really smart, and he was right.”

A girl with a crush, it sounds like.

I check the mirrors, and the door to the campaign headquarters. The remaining staff is arguing. I don’t see the other girl.

I pull out and start down the road. “How do you know Andy’s not gay?”

“I just do,” she says. “I mean, he doesn’t seem like it, and he wouldn’t be, and he’s really nice.”

I suppress a sigh, wondering how anyone can be as naïve as she is and still function. I remind myself, as I often do at the bar, that it’s not my job to educate people. At the bar, it’s my job to help them forget their idiocies for a while.

Right now, I don’t really have a job, except maybe to get this girl home.

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“They’re not going to come for me, are they?” she asks.

I don’t ask “who.” I know who she means. “You got a roommate?”

She shakes her head.

“Deadbolts?”

She nods.

“Just don’t answer your door tonight,” I say, knowing it’s not a lot of comfort. But I’m not going to be responsible for this kid. “Call the cops if someone’s persistent.”

She makes a little involuntary sound of panic. I ignore it.

“Address?” I ask again.

She tells me. She lives all the way across town, near the university. Of course.

I wheel the truck in that direction, and wonder what I’m going to do with the information that the girl has given me. Call the cops? Tell Rick? Tell the hospital?

It’s really none of my business.

And I’m not the type who makes it my business. I tend bar, for godssake. Nothing is my business.

“Where were you when he left his wallet?” she asks.

I glance at her. I had said he left it at my place. Either she forgot that, or she’s trying to figure out why Santiago would be with a woman like me.

We’re nowhere near the headquarters now, and something about being alone in the cab of this truck with this girl makes me decide on honesty.

“He came into my bar,” I say, my voice flat.

“Bar?” She frowns at me. “I thought—he says—he doesn’t drink.”

Maybe like Bancroft doesn’t drink. Because no non-drinker would order Jack. Although I had pushed him into it. And he hadn’t known what would hurt him.

Maybe someone he knew ordered Jack, and he parroted the order.

“He did,” I say. “And then he passed out—”

“He drank that much?” she asks.

I wheel onto the Expressway. Not a lot of traffic this late at night, but the billboard is lit up from below. Want to go back to 1861?

“No,” I say, answering both questions. “He passed out from blood loss.”

“He got beat up in your bar?”

“He got beaten up and raped before he got to my bar.”

I let the words hang.

She’s shaking her head. “No. You can’t rape a…” and then she pauses and her breath catches. “No,” she says again, only this time, the tone is different. This no is a disbelieving no. She saw something, realized something, knew something.

“Where is he?” she asks.

“Mercy General,” I say. “We took him there.”

“If you know where he is, why did you come to campaign headquarters?” There’s anger in her voice now, as if it’s all my fault.

Why did I go to the headquarters? It was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I hadn’t meant to, but I’m not sure I should say that to this girl.

“I thought maybe I’d find some of his friends there,” I lie. “I thought maybe I’d find someone who cared.”

She nods, and goes silent. The Expressway seems alien at this time of night, with the halogen streetlights leaving uneven pools of light across the smooth pavement. We’d gone several miles. We were due for another Want to go back to 1861? billboard real soon now.

“I care.” She says it so softly that I almost didn’t hear her over the hum of the tires. “Can we go see him?”

“It’s the middle of the night,” I say. “Do you know his family?”

She shakes her head. “Who do you think did this?”

“Who do you think did it?” I ask with more charge than I expect.

She turns away, thinking I can’t see her. But I can see her reflection in the passenger side window. Her mouth has thinned, her eyes are narrow, and at first, I think she’s angry. Then I realize she’s holding back tears.

“If I go to the police,” she whispers, “I’m done.”

“You already quit,” I say, recognizing the irony as the words come out of my mouth. I’m pushing her to take action in a situation where I never would.

“No,” she says. “I’m done working in politics.”

“Maybe,” I say. But politics are different now than they were in my day. No one would believe a girl with a complaint thirty years ago, even if she had been bruised and battered and bleeding for days.

Now, people would believe a girl, a sincere girl of the proper background, who saw something, knew something, accused something. And if she stood up, then maybe—

I smile at myself, mentally pat myself on the back and think, Hello, Girl Operator. I thought I’d trained her out of me, but she reappears like the undead, filled with naiveté, optimism and hope.

“You want to keep working in politics more than you want to help a friend?” I ask.

“He’s not a friend,” she says too fast. “He’s….”

He was the hope of a friend. A boyfriend. Someone kind to her.

We’ve reached her neighborhood. I take the first exit off the Expressway. Students sit outside well-lit bars, one hour before last call. My bar hasn’t been open to last call since Barak Obama got re-elected, when the rednecks and the bigots were too scared and angry to go home.

I wonder what made Laney want to return to 1861. She fits into my bar—Bancroft’s bar—better than I do, and she doesn’t even know it.

I wind through a couple of side streets and find the rundown apartment complex where she lives.

She looks at me for a moment, as if she wants to say something. Then she opens the passenger side door.

“Thanks for the lift,” she says, as if we’re old friends.

She gets out, slams the door, and half-runs, half-walks to the building. She doesn’t look both ways to see if anyone is lurking in the shadows. She doesn’t look back either.

I watch her fumble with her keys, open the main door, and head inside.

I don’t know why I expect her to do the right thing, when the only person in this entire situation who has done the right thing wasn’t me. It was Rick. And he did it without hesitation.

I sigh, pull away from the curb, and drive away.

Eventually, I head home, because I can’t think of anywhere else to go.

***

Home isn’t much. It’s a condo only because I bought the entire building a few years ago, when I realized it was better to control who I had as neighbors than it was to suffer through another loud drunken party two floors below me.

I have the entire top floor, which sounds more impressive than it is. Living room with a view of the street, good-size kitchen with a view of nothing, a dining room that serves as a storehouse for mail that I forget to sort, and a large bedroom complete with TV and reading chair, and two windows, both locked and shaded. I installed air conditioning and a good heating system, and if you came inside with me (which you never would) you’d think that the windows hadn’t been opened since the last century, and you’d be right.

Fresh air is for suckers, baby. And people who trust other people.

My kitchen table is always spotless. I hang my purse over one of the chairs, open the fridge, and take out the sub I bought that morning. I usually have something ready when I get home so I don’t have to think about food.

I unwrap the sub. The bread’s soggy from the oil and vinegar dressing I splurged on, but I don’t care. I eat a few bites, listen to the green pepper crunch, let the pepperoni bite my tongue, and start shaking again.

It’s hard to eat. My throat has closed up like it did in those first weeks after I met Bancroft. I trained myself to eat after that—too well, some would say—and I force myself to take a few more bites now.

No regression, no regrets. Just move forward.

Only that’s not really working for me right now. I know something. Laney knows something. And neither of us have taken any steps forward.

I cut the rest of the sub in half, and put the good half in the fridge for tomorrow—if I can eat tomorrow. I make myself finish the other half, chase it with some cold water, and head to the bedroom.

The queen-sized bed doesn’t even look inviting. The entire room seems like a foreign place. I go to my living room, don’t turn on any lights, and sit on the couch, surveying the neighborhood.

Or so I tell myself. Part of me knows I’m reverting to the scared woman I’d been thirty years ago.

And part of me doesn’t care.

***

I wake up with my head jammed against the arm and back of the sofa, a crick in my neck so profound that I moan as I move. The light falling into the room is unfamiliar, and I have awakened much earlier than usual.

I get up, and as I make some much-needed coffee, I look at the clock on the microwave. It’s 7:30 a.m.

Even though I don’t have to be at the bar until eleven, I know I can’t go back to sleep. My dreams were filled with confetti and laughter and cries of He won! I’m not going back there just to get a few more hours rest.

I shower, dress, manage to shove some Raisin Bran into my mouth, and chase the meal with coffee. Then, without really thinking about it, I let myself out of the condo.

Mercy General is fifteen minutes away on back roads in rush hour traffic. I get there just as visiting hours open.

I’m not sure if I want to see Andy Santiago. My stomach is as twisted as my neck was this morning, the coffee mixing badly with the cereal. I ask for Santiago’s room, and receive the number with no fuss.

Apparently, he was able to tell them who he was.

Hospitals have the same smell—the sour scent of sickness overlaid by disinfectant and cafeteria gravy, with a hint of very bad coffee. I take the elevator to the fourteenth floor, wondering what, exactly, I’m about.

But I don’t turn around.

His room is halfway down the hall from the elevator. I pass rooms with moaning patients, beeping equipment, and loud televisions. The room number is displayed prominently on the blond wood.

Santiago’s door stands open. I slip inside, surprised to see that the room is private. It has a bathroom near the door, and a bed in the center. Windows cover the outside wall, letting in sunlight.

Andy Santiago looks nothing like the man who came into my bar. His face is gray with pain and that bruise on his chin is five times the size it was yesterday afternoon. He’s smaller than I thought, and he wears a hospital gown instead of an expensive suit.

“Mr. Santiago?” I sit on the edge of the chair next to his bed. I don’t want to tower over him. In my experience, looming is as threatening as leaning in.

He opens one eye and slowly moves his head in my direction.

“You,” he says, his voice raspy with disuse.

I nod. I reach into my purse and remove the plastic bag with his wallet.

“I found your wallet.” I set it on the nightstand, near the TV remote. That’s when I realize the television is off.

“Thank you,” he mouths and closes his eyes again.

I wait a minute, just to see if he’ll talk to me. I start to get up, feeling very awkward.

You’d think I would know how to talk to someone in a situation like this. You’d think I would know what’s right and what’s wrong, how to pressure, how to comfort.

But I don’t. I don’t know any of it.

I don’t even say, I’m sorry for what happened to you, because even though the words aren’t empty, they sound empty.

I walk out of the room, feeling like I should have done more, but not sure what more actually is. I can’t tell him to go to the police; I never did. And I can’t offer him the comfort of some support group, because I never found them comforting.

I’m most of the way to my truck when I realize that all the things I would offer a friend, all the common-sense things people do for each other in times of crisis, all the ways our society says we should take care of crime and each other, I have done none of them for myself. Ever.

Coffee-flavored acid rises in my gorge and I swallow, hard. I lean on the truck for a moment.

Then I climb inside, and drive to work, two hours early and thirty years too late.

***

I clean the front top to bottom in those two hours, and I keep cleaning through the slow arrival of the lunch drinkers. Ma Kettle finds her booth around one, and I give her the usual vodka tonic. A twenty-something couple walks in about one-thirty, looks around, and then gives me a sheepish look before leaving again.

I’m amazed they got inside at all.

I’m clock-watching, waiting for Rick. I’m not sure what I want to talk to him about; I just want to talk.

Then, at three-thirty-five, he arrives, like he always has. Only he doesn’t bang the door closed and he doesn’t seem quite as angry.

He also doesn’t sit at his usual spot at the bar.

He glances at everything, as if memorizing it. I’ve seen this from regulars before. They’re saying goodbye.

I head over, but I don’t grab the Heineken. I won’t, unless he asks.

“Hey,” I say. “I took that guy his wallet.”

Rick nods. “He’s pretty messed up.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“They used something—bottle, bat, I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t ask. But he was hemorrhaging. If we hadn’t brought him in, he would’ve died.”

Jesus. In my bar. Right in front of me.

“If you hadn’t brought him in,” I say.

“What?” Rick asks.

“You did it, not me,” I say. “If I had been here by myself—”

“You’d’ve called 911,” Rick says. He looks longingly at the bar stool. I can feel him wavering. “Those bastards. He wouldn’t tell me who did it.”

“Guys he worked with,” I say.

“He told you?” Rick asks.

I shake my head. I don’t want to tell him about the campaign office—it’s too close, too personal, but…

Rick’s staring at me. “What, D?”

“Debra,” I say, surprising myself. “I’m Debra.”

And then I burst into tears.

***

Oh, I’d love to tell you everything’s hunky dory now, and my life is perfect, and that big-name politician isn’t sitting like a slug at the statehouse. He is, and my life is still my life, and nothing’s hunky dory.

But Rick knew the detective handling Santiago’s case, and Rick made me tell the detective about the campaign headquarters and the Log Cabin Republican comments and the sheer hostility.

They found Laney, and it turns out she was scared not just because she figured out what happened. Right after I had said Santiago was raped, just as she was going to tell me with all her naïve passion that raping a man wasn’t possible, a memory hit her, and made the sentence die in her throat.

She had seen the bloody dowel Jordy and his friends used, part of a broken towel-rack someone placed near the back to take out with the recycling. She’d seen it, and better yet, she helped the police find it.

Those four guys who used it to teach Andy Santiago a lesson are going to learn some lessons themselves.

If this were one of those happy feel-good alls-well-that-ends-well kinda stories, I’d tell you that Santiago and I have become friends or that we bonded at our support group. I’d tell you this incident derailed the Jeff Davis campaign.

But none of that happened.

I’m still here, still tending bar, still wondering what to do with my afternoons.

Something’s different, though. I’m trying to figure out how to update the bar, so that we’re not the neighborhood eyesore as the gentrification continues. I’ve decided that I like what we are—that wayside, that haven, for the folks whose lives are in the crapper.

There’re plenty of trendy bars. I don’t like them much.

I prefer places where strangers wander in rarely, and when they do, they tend to stick around until they cross back over to the trendy bar side of life.

I imagine that’s where Rick is. Or he’s in that same place Bancroft is, the one that knows about the reality of dive bars and the camaraderie of people hanging at the end of their ropes.

About a week ago, Santiago came back, he says, because he owes me. But I keep saying he owes Rick. Santiago doesn’t owe me anything.

But Santiago does know that I used to do his job, back in the day, the job he doesn’t do any more either, and he knows I once sat on the same bar stool with the same disillusionment.

I don’t know if that means anything to him. I’m not sure it means much to me.

I do know that, for the time being, he’s finding comfort here.

And who can argue with that?

The Trendy Bar Side of Life

Copyright © Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Published by WMG Publishing

Cover and layout copyright © 2020 by WMG Publishing

Cover design by WMG Publishing

Cover art copyright © aragami12345/Depositphotos

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (“AI”) technologies is expressly prohibited. The author and publisher reserve all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

Hey, we’re running short on pickles!

What I want to know is why he’s in the fridge.

What I want to know is why he’s in MY fridge.

I want to know why I didn’t get to go in the fridge.

I want to know what secrets lurk in the hearts of men.

I want to know how to write my own damn cat blogs, starring…moi.

In reply to Jonathan.

Great idea! I worry a lot about Stephen getting into a situation where he is backed into a corner and has his sigls confiscated.. Imagine if he is injured additionally!

In reply to Bill.

Yes, should be.

Very pleased to hear that the edits are almost done, and glad that (I’m assuming now) that they didn’t impact any of the prose that exists in the current Book#5 draft.

I trust that Book#5 is still “on schedule” for completion in the autumn?

I have a couple of posts I would like to write, but they must wait till tomorrow. A difficult scene is coming up, and it must be done right. The only way to do it to live through the emotions it requires.

We will walk this path with Maggie, because that is the price we pay for authenticity.

With that in mind, I bring you something light and calm. Help Kid 2 and I pack an order for Wynne. If you receiving this in your inbox and can’t see the video, you can find it on Youtube here.

If you ordered vellum with us, it will be arriving next week and most of the envelopes should get there by Wednesday. Please let me know if everything arrived safely. If you would like to order you own set, the preorder should go up next Friday.

I will see you on Saturday for a personal post.

The post Pack an Order with Us first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

In reply to Nick Thijssen.

Unfortunately, when I’m writing the first draft, I don’t know WHICH bits are the ones I’ll have to change afterwards.

This is kind of like Coding, where you have to change ALL the references to a certain bit of code. Do you write certain phrases in certain ways so they’re easier to find later when editing?

All your books (both Alex and Inheritance) are a great joy to read. All thanks to your thorough rewriting. Also I very much like the way you talk and discuss about the Drucraft on this website. Its strengths but also its limitations. Fantastic!

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Chapter 3

 

At Sea

 

Captain Chamas saw the trawler and noted it was flying the colors of the Nuevo Imperium. He had the surviving crew tack to get as close as they could while he readied his pistols.

It was late evening; the sloppy crew hadn't even manned a watch in the crow's nest or on deck. He slipped aboard and then took control of the ship.

"Who is the captain?" he demanded.

An anxious lad looked furitively to an old grizzled man with gray hair and beard.

Captain Chamas looked at his pistol and then put it in his waist band and pulled his dagger. He slit the throat of the old man. The old man's eyes were wide as he gargled and fell over. Blood sprayed across the room, getting on the pirate.

The other pirates laughed maliciously.

"Now, I'll ask again, who is the captain," he demanded.

"You," the lad stuttered, pointing to him.

"Better," the captain said. He nudged the body. "Strip that and then throw it over the side," he growled. "Save the boots; they may be my size," he growled.

They had been in the lifeboat a hafta. Their clothes were encrusted with salt. Having a spare set of clothes would be nice. He watched as the lad and one of his sailors stripped the body and then moved it to the stern.

"Tie off the lifeboat; we may need it again," he growled. "Search the ship. Find me some rum," he growled as he heard a splash in the stern. The lad and any other able-bodied prisoners were about to be sold into slavery once they got to the pirate island.

"Let's get this dung heap of a barge squared away and then head home," he growled. The other pirates growled in agreement.

---+--+-{0}-+--+---

 Ziyougang City, Pirate Island

 

Dominus Dirk Wheeler had been initially proud of achievements and had taken great pride over the navy. Still worried about what Imperials will do.

He was pushing innovation and the machine shops and shipyards hard to turn out new machines. The research on the technology was tricky, but knowing that it had been done while also having a physical example and paperwork helped immensely in the copying and understanding of the things.

They needed to close the gap on innovation with the mainland if they were ever going to have a chance at survival long term.

As usual there was a need for more iron for steel and more coal of course and so on and so forth. He looked at the pile of notes and shook his head.

"So many calls for iron! From ships to machines to  buildings—it seems that this is getting out of control!"

"It is just moving faster than we ever dreamed," Hala, his mate said with a smile.

"The Gaijin are devils!"

So many things had been learned from the festival spies as well as the captured PBY Catalina craft. Standardized tools, fittings, screws, bolts, so many, many things. Access panels, motors, turbine engines, the lists went on and on. He was sometimes dazed by it all.

His artisans were going crazy with the work. Of course Captain Pasha was smug since it had been his clan to bring the craft down. He was reeping a lot of what the artisan clan made from their research.

Dirk might have complained at an earlier date. Now he didn't care. They were all benefiting from the capture.

His mate ran her hands over his shoulders and then hugged him from behind. "They are just men. They have many annus of change that they brought with them. The plans for it all. We have seen some of it over the many annus, but never understood it all."

"Very little."

"Correct. Much of it lacked the basics on how it works," she said. She looked over him to a sketch and smiled.

There was an exploded diagram of an engine transmission on the paper. The sketch was ingenious; no doubt the concept had been taken from the festival spies but the drawing was new. "For the aircraft?" she asked as she picked the sketch up and examined it.

"And other things. Vehicles, cranes, all manner of machines," Dirk said as he turned to watch her. "It is all about gears and moving them about to find the right size gear to apply just the right amount of power and torque to do the job."

"Ah," she said in approval.

"They have to be made out of the right metals," he warned.

"I see," she said as she laid the paper back down again.

"We have some casting issues but I'm transitioning to diesel and gas. Primarily gas, the diesel engines are still more trouble than they are worth," Dirk said with a grimace. "They are costing a lot so I'm selling the steam engines to the market as they come online."

"Ah?" she asked in amusement. "Should you sell one or two to the duke?" she asked in malicious amusement. "He might pay richly for one."

Dirk cocked his head. "That is a thought," he admitted. He'd probably get two or three times what the market would bear locally if he sold a steam engine to the Grand Duke of Medicini. After a moment, he nodded. "Their tribute ship is due in a mens or two?"

"Something like that," his mate said. "Aren't you going on a trip again?"

He nodded. "Isaac and the others have parts to try in the plane. If they work, we will be slightly closer to replicating more of it," he said. "We leave in the morning."

"Ah. Well then, I have you all to myself then," she said huskily as she climbed into his lap and cradled his face. He smiled as she leaned in and kissed him.

---+--+-{0}-+--+---

Domina Ching Abbas had her hands tucked in the sleeves of her robe as she wandered through the alchemy building. Dominus Wheeler was pushing for more change, and she agreed with him. His work and that of the spies had improved their alchemy ten fold in only a few short annus.

She exited the building and went across the street to another which was making drugs. All sorts of pharmacuticals were being made, from medicines to those used for entertainment. She was amused that some of the other dominus like Wheeler were so trusting with her, and others didn't trust her at all. Of course it might be that they were suspicious of her because of her use of poisons. She had in fact removed an annoying dominus recently for his stupidity.

That had actually backfired when he had been replaced by Pasha. Pasha was a chuavanistic fool, a bit of a blowhard. He had youth and energy though, something that Omar had lacked. He was eager to prove himself, which was one reason that fool and the other dominus with him had raided the Nuevo Imperium.

She grimaced and nodded slightly as she made her way through the lab and then out another door and over to her office. She didn't bother checking the massage parlor, which doubled as a brothel, or the medicus building further down the street.

She had hopes that Wheeler would turn up something new for her soon. She also hoped that the Imperium would hold off a bit longer, though she doubted that they would hold out forever.

---+--+-{0}-+--+---

Happy Thursday, BDH. Mod R here, requesting Horde assistance.

Not an image of my actual apartment but like…90% there.

I am moving house.

The new place is lovely, and I am very happy and grateful to have housing, but it has also been touched by the Fairy of Modern Rental Design (much less cooler than the Fish Fairy) and leeched of colour. Stark white walls, bright fluorescent lighting, black fittings, grey floors. Add windows that do not get direct sun and the usual English grey natural light, and you get the picture.

Very much a First World Mod problem, I am the first to admit. But the more I get to know myself and my ADHD, the more I realise how much my environment overstimulates me and makes me evil.

I haven’t decorated a home in more than a decade, and I ended up really hating what I did then, which was to work with the monochrome instead of against it. When I got rid of the bigger, greyer pieces, it was like my whole nervous system breathed a sigh of relief from tension I didn’t even know I was holding.

I do not want to get to that situation again.

Now I’m leaving all of that furniture behind and starting anew, with two limitations:

1. I can only work with furniture, textiles, lighting, rugs, art, and renter-friendly tricks. The walls, floors, kitchen fittings, and permanent fixtures must remain as they are.
2. More importantly, I have no measurable aesthetic sense. As in, I can appreciate it when I see it, but I have no idea how to get things that harmoniously “go” together.

My style is…pretty much everything they dig up at Pompeii? I’m not sure what to call that particular flavour of Mediterranean, but if I could live on an Ancient Rome set design, I would. Creams, terracotta, olive greens, pops of gold and sea blues.

My mission is to lighten and warm up the place by combining the two realities. “What if a spreadsheet became a home?” meets “You wake up on a sunny afternoon in Apulia. It’s 78 AD, and the olive harvest is plentiful.”

So I come to you, wise Horde.

Where do you look for inspiration and shop for home things? I’m in the UK, but please do not let geography stop you. The comment section has never respected borders before, and I see no reason for it to start now.

Is it Pinterest accounts? Design books by…? Instagram people? Specific blogs? YouTube channels? Secret witch covens that meet inside an ancient turtle and discuss where to buy good curtains?

Please advise, because I am currently losing a staring contest with a grey floor.

The post Horde vs The Grey first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

UPDATE from ModR: “They’ve sold out before I got the chance to format the pictures and write the caption for Instagram…” Level of BDH chalantness: 100. Okay, let us get this processed.

Here we go. ::deep breath::

We are doing the first trial run of This Kingdom Vellum Overlays. This is our chance to iron out shipping and logistical issues, so this first batch is limited to 10 sets. We felt that vellum needed a bit more with it, so we are offering a Vellum Media Envelope.

Vellum Media Envelope contains 6 gorgeous vellum prints of the character art by Helena Elias. These prints are 6 x 9 inches and are printed on 45 lbs vellum.  Vellum is stiff and translucent, and tends to stay in the book.

The envelope retails for $24.99 with flat $9.99 shipping.

ORDER HERE

A word about this: we are seeing vellum overlays retail for between $4-$10. We are going with $4 per print for this run. We may up the price in the future to be around $6.

These prints fit

• US Hardcover Edition
• OwlCrate

These prints do not fit

• UK regular hardcover

For some reason, the regular UK hardcover is 1/4 inch narrower. I don’t have the Waterstones to compare.

For this reason, this trial batch is US only.

PS: If your are in US and have one of the following editions of This Kingdom:

• The Waterstones edition with painted edges
• The French Edition
• The Polish Edition
• The German Edition

please comment here and we will send you a complimentary vellum print of your choice to test it. This is a first come, first serve.

Back to the envelope

Character List

• Solentine Dagarra
• Man from the Garden
• Clover
• Doran Arvel
• Colart Jennicor
• Ramond vi Everard

What’s in the box?

• 6 vellum prints
• 1 bookmark
• 1 signed bookplate
• 1 large sticker (3×3)
• 2 small stickers (2×2)

There are three sticker designs available: Demarr Crest, Assassins, and Survive, Get Paid. 

During the checkout, you can input order notes. Please indicate which sticker you would like to be 3×3. If you want your bookplate personalized with your name, please add that in the order notes as well. If you leave it blank, you will get the bookplate with just a signature.

And the cat. The cat is also for sale.

Please somebody take this feral cat off my hands. I cannot reach for anything without her being in my way.

The contents will come in a dark blue padded envelope with a cardboard insert. Once again, this item has a flat shipping rate of $9.99.

ORDER HERE

When will this be mailed?

As soon as the orders are in.

I am Erin, the giveaway winner.

Erin, you are getting yours mailed tomorrow. I have the label.

I am Cad.

I saved you a set. That is going out with Erin’s tomorrow.

I want that cat on a mug!

Me too. This is being made.

I missed it!

This is the trial batch. Once it is mailed out and everything is good, we will start taking preorders. You will absolutely get your set.

I want just one print.

That can be arranged. The individual prints will retail for $6. The shipping will likely be the same or only slightly cheaper. It’s because of the envelope. We are mailing a bubble mailer with stiff cardboard in it.

That’s it. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take this poll. If you cannot see the poll because you are getting this through your inbox, please click here.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll. Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

The post This Kingdom Sells Vellum first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

As a woman in the Middle Ages, Maude knows her place. But her husband’s early death means she must fulfill his duties until their son comes of age.

When a woman appears on her doorstep bloodied and broken, Maude must decide how far she will go to protect her son’s estate. Will she follow the cultural rules, or will she find a strength she didn’t know she possessed?

“Improvements” is free on this website for one week only. If you would like an ebook copy of the story, you can get it at WMG Books or on any other ebook retail site. Enjoy!

 

Improvements Kristine Kathryn Rusch

When the strange woman appeared, Maude was in the buttery, speaking with the clerk of the kitchen about his latest round of purchases. He went to market too often, she thought, and was too extravagant for the types of meals he produced. She would, if he did not modify his expenditures, have to fire him.

He would be the first servant she fired since her husband died.

The very idea filled her with dread. She had run the household since her marriage ten years before, but her husband had handled the money, the hiring and firing of servants, and the overall management of the large estate.

Now she managed it, in trust for their only child, a son who was still in swaddling. Still, some duties made her hands shake.

The clerk of the kitchen was a large florid man whom her husband had hired shortly before the baby was born. She had had misgivings about him then, but had been too tired to speak of them. Then her husband became ill, the baby had been born, and her husband had died, all within half a year’s time. She felt as if she woke up only recently to find herself in a life that only resembled the one she had once had.

The buttery was a small room off the kitchen. Beer and candles sat on the shelves. The stairs from the beer cellar descended down one side, and the main door of the buttery opened into the hall. She had sent the yeoman of the buttery—he was such a gossip—into the garden for a brief rest. Not that he needed one. His services were rarely used this early in the day.

The clerk of the kitchen was explaining, in his condescending voice, how some foods tasted poorly without the proper ingredients. She had her hands folded inside her sleeves, her wimple pinching her chin. She had been listening to him for too long, but she didn’t know how to make him stop.

And that was when they heard the screams, coming from the kitchen.

The clerk looked at her as if he had never heard such sounds before. She pushed past him into the Hall, through the Court, and into the kitchen.

It stank of grease and smoke and roasting meat. Even though no one was yet cooking the evening meal, the smell from last night’s lingered.

The kitchen staff was huddled near the outside door. One of the kitchen maids had her hands over her mouth. She was doubled over away from the door, as if she had seen something horrible.

Maude hurried past the worktable to the door itself. The servants parted as they saw her, all but the chief cook who blocked her way with his large body.

“Milady,” he said. “This is not for a lady to see.”

“Move aside,” she said.

He stared at her a moment, his blue eyes red-streaked from smoke, his lips thin and pursed as if he had tasted something bad. Then he stepped away from the door.

A woman lay on the flagstones leading into the garden. Her ragged clothes were blood-covered as was her face and hair. When she saw Maude, she raised a thin hand as if beseeching her.

“We shall take care of this, Milady,” the chief cook said. “It is nothing that should bother you.”

But they hadn’t taken care of it so far, had they? Besides, how could she leave a creature in such obvious distress?

“It is simply a beggar woman,” the chief cook said. “We see many of them at the kitchen. She was probably beset by thieves—“

“A beggar woman, beset by thieves? That does not seem likely.” Maude stepped outside. She knew why the staff was protecting her. The woman wore garments that Maude recognized from the town’s stew.

“She is a harlot, Milady,” the chief cook hissed. “Please. It is not right for you—“

“Enough!” Maude said. She crossed the flagstones and crouched beside the woman.

The woman smelled of sweat and fear. She was so thin that all the bones in her hand were visible. Her face was swollen and bruised, her teeth blackened and nearly gone. Yet Maude was certain the woman was younger than she.

Her surcoat had once been a rough wool, but time and use had worn it to nothing. There were several tears in it, recent tears, that rendered it nearly useless. She wore nothing underneath, and Maude could see scars beside the fresh bruises.

“Milady,” the woman murmured.

Maude put a hand on the woman’s forehead. No fever. She could not see where the blood came from. “Who did this to you?”

The woman touched her bloody garment. “Not mine.” She spoke so softly that Maude could barely hear her. “Anne’s.”

Maude felt a shiver run through her. “Where is Anne?”

The woman looked toward the forest beyond, and the road that led back into town. “I could not help her any longer…”

It was then that Maude looked at the woman’s feet. She wore no hose and no shoes. Her right leg, Maude suddenly realized, was twisted in an unnatural way.

“Help me get her inside,” Maude said to the chief cook.

“No, Mistress,” the woman said, but Maude ignored her.

The chief cook crossed his arms. “Milady, she is—“

“One of God’s children,” Maude said. “We shall take care of her.”

The chief cook sent out scullions and the indoor grooms. Apparently the cook was too good to help a woman in need.

The men slipped their arms beneath the woman and she moaned. Maude wondered how many other bones had been broken.

“Place her in the servants quarters and send for the wet nurse,” Maude said. Her wet nurse knew potions and herbs and healings. She had cursed the doctors when she saw what they had done to Maude’s husband, saying that if Maude had brought her in sooner, she could have saved him.

Considering that she saved the steward, who later fell to the same disease, Maude believed her.

The quarters where she had them take the woman were for the greater servants. They had rooms of their own, with cots stuffed with straw, instead of mattresses on the floor. This room had been empty since her husband died. She had lost a few servants and hadn’t had the energy to replace them.

The men laid the woman on the bed. She was paler than she had been before, and her eyes were glassy with pain.

“What are you called?” Maude asked.

“Mistress, your man, he is right about what I am.”

“Do not argue,” Maude said. “You are here now. What are you called?”

“Joan.”

“Joan,” Maude said. “Who did this?”

Joan closed her eyes. At that moment, the wet nurse appeared. She held a towel as if she had just left the young lord, and her surcoat was not properly fastened.

When she saw the woman on the bed, her gaze met Maude’s. “Milady, you know—“

“I know,” Maude said. “See what you can do. She’s been badly beaten and her arm is broken.”

The wet nurse nodded. She came inside, put a hand on Joan’s forehead, and then began to examine her. Maude stood.

The men were still crowded inside the room. It was as if they saw Joan as a curiosity and nothing more.

“Come,” Maude said. “We shall find this Anne.”

***

Halfway to town, they found what remained of Anne. She lay in a crumpled heap beside the road, her limbs bent at unnatural angles. Her face was bloodied, as if her nose had been broken, but that was not where all of the blood came from.

She had knife wounds on her hands and arms, and another through her belly. The dry road contained a black trail, as if she had lost blood the entire way.

Joan had carried her on a broken leg, until she could come no farther.

Maude turned to the head groom who had accompanied her. She took one of Anne’s cold, damaged hands, and held it out to him.

“What do you think of this?” she asked.

He shrugged. He could barely look at her. “This is not your concern, Milady.”

“Of course it is,” she snapped, startled at the tone that came out of her mouth. Had she ever spoken to anyone so harshly? “This is my land.”

He looked at her then, and it seemed as though there was pity in his eyes. It made her bristle.

“What becomes of these women,” he said, “is their choice.”

“I doubt anyone would choose to die like this,” Maude said. She ran her fingers over the deep wounds. The skin had parted so far that she could see muscle. “I believe she was trying to defend herself.”

“Be that as it may, Milady,” the groom said. “She knew what such a life would bring.”

Did she? Did anyone? Maude remembered the day after her marriage, as she rode in her husband’s carriage to her new home, the estate she now ran. Had she known that day how many miscarriages she would have? How the first babe born to them would die three days later in pain so bad that his little wails broke her heart? Had she known then that she would love her surviving son so much that it hurt?

Of course not. And the greatest surprise of all had been how badly she missed her husband, now that he was gone.

“You know something of these women then?” she asked her groom.

He flushed. “Only what I have overheard in taverns, Milady.”

She narrowed her eyes, not believing him. “They are from the stew, are they not?”

He nodded.

“Is such treatment common there?”

His flush grew deeper. “Milady, I am not—“

“I am a woman married and widowed,” she said. “I am not unfamiliar with such things.”

“There are perversions, Milady, that I cannot speak of to a gentleborn lady.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Perversions that would result in this?”

He looked away from her. His skin was the color of dark wine. “There are men who enjoy inflicting pain.”

She shuddered once, and decided that perhaps he was right; she was not ready to hear such things. Still, a woman had died on her land and another had come to her for help.

“What do you think they were doing here?” she asked. “Where do you think they were going?”

He shook his head. He knew, as well as she, that no one would have taken the women in.

The hand did not feel human. It was too cold, the flesh hard.

“We shall give her a Christian burial,” Maude said.

“Milady! She deserves no such treatment.”

“Did you know her then?” Maude asked.

He shook his head.

“Then you do not know who and what she was. Like me, you can only guess. And I choose to guess that she was a Godly woman. You shall send some men to bring her back to the house. We shall place her in the chapel, find her suitable clothes before the priest arrives, and have him say a few words over her.”

“He will not like this, Milady.”

“He will not know,” she said.

“How will he not learn of it?” the groom asked. “So many have seen her, so many already know.”

She raised her head, anger making her feel stronger than she had for almost a year. “If anyone speaks of this,” she said firmly, “he will be fired.”

The groom’s eyes widened. She had never been this cold before.

He nodded once. “As you wish,” he said.

***

Because of her duties to young Henry, the wet nurse enlisted the aid of two kitchen maids and a chambermaid, all of whom, the wet nurse said, also had knowledge of healing.

Maude was amazed that she knew so little of her staff. They bowed to her when she came into the room. It now smelled of wine and camphor. While Maude was gone, Joan’s sore feet had been cleaned and bound with cloth, her bruises rubbed with hot stones, and her broken leg set and splinted.

But she was awake, her eyes dark against her pale face.

“Leave us for a moment,” Maude said to the servants.

They bowed again, and slipped through the door. Maude took Joan’s hand. It was fragile as a bird’s wing, but at least it felt alive, warm and callused, the bones delicate against her palm.

“Anne is dead,” Maude said.

Joan closed her eyes for a moment, and nodded. It was as if Maude’s words made the death real.

“I am giving her a Christian funeral,” Maude said. “She is in the chapel. If you are well enough, you may attend.”

Joan bit her lower lip. “You do not want me there.”

“Of course I do,” she said.

“’Tis not a place for me.” Joan bowed her head.

“Our Lord did not think so,” Maude said. “Mary Magdalene was of your profession, yet she was at his side.”

Joan squeezed Maude’s hand. “You are a good woman. I did not mean to burden you.”

“It is no burden.” Maude put her other hand on top of Joan’s. “Who did this to you?”

“Milady, it is not for you to hear.”

“I am so tired of everyone telling me what I may and may not hear,” Maude said. “I have lived more than a score of years, and I know of the stew and the men who frequent it. Now, stop protecting my dainty ears and tell me who did this to you.”

“A man,” Joan whispered. “I do not know his name.”

“Is he the same one who killed Anne?”

A tear eased out of Joan’s right eye. “No.”

“Yet you left together.”

“She would not have been hurt if not for me.”

“Tell me,” Maude said, and so Joan did.

***

The story came out in fits and whispers, sometimes lost beneath the choking sound of Joan’s heavily drawn breath. A man—a customer—had ill used her, and Anne, seeing how badly Joan was hurt, went to William, the stewholder, asking him to send for a doctor. He refused, and demanded that Joan, who was popular, finish her night’s work.

Anne returned to Joan’s room, and bundled her up, taking bread from the kitchen, and rolled it and some clothing in two blankets. Anne had heard of nunneries that took in Daughters of Eve—the Order of Saint Mary Magdalene—and they would travel until they found such a place.

Anne was helping Joan out of the stew when William found them. He accused Anne of stealing and he drew a knife. He cut her and that brought him to a frenzy. He attacked her like a madman, and did not stop. Joan could not help her.

Blood spattered her face, and then his, and that seemed awaken him from his fit. He left them in the road outside the stew, left them, Joan believed, to die.

She managed to lift Anne over her shoulder, holding her in place with her good hand. Somehow she managed to make it to the middle of the forest before she fell, unable to go on. There she realized that Anne’s eyes were open and unseeing, that Anne was not drawing a breath.

She remembered no more.

“I do not even think I saw your manor,” she said. “I was just walking because I did not know what else to do.”

***

Maude did not know what to do either. She sat in her private chamber, head bowed. But she did not ask for God’s aid. Somehow she felt that God’s presence was in none of this.

The stewholder, she knew, had rights over his women. He could prevent them from leaving. He could punish them for an obvious theft. But Maude did not believe the theft of bread and blankets was sin enough for this. She did not believe that women, who sought to better themselves, deserved to die by the side of the road, to be left there like discarded clothes.

It took her an hour to come to her decision.

And then she sent for her steward.

***

He was a man of some years, thin after his illness, his hair gone except for graying tufts at the sides. Her husband had trusted him implicitly and Maude had trusted him as well. His advice had been sound, his care for the estate excellent.

He seemed uncomfortable to be in her private rooms. He waited, with the door open, for her instruction.

“Have the sheriff arrest the stewholder,” she said. “His name is William.”

“Milady,” the steward said. “Since your husband’s death, we have had no magistrate.”

She nodded. “I will sit in judgment,” she said.

He stared at her for a long moment, as if she were not someone he recognized.

“What would be the charge, then?” the steward asked.

“Murder,” she said.

***

She held the hearing the next day. She sat in her hall as the sheriff brought in William the Stewholder. He was a portly man whose scarlet tunic was made of an expensive serge and whose shoes were lined with fur.

He looked as if he could afford the loss of a blanket or two.

His hands were shackled, but his feet were not.

When he saw her, his face flushed the color of his tunic. “I’ll not sit before a woman!” he cried.

“You have no choice,” she said in her new voice, the voice that had been born of this experience. “I am the trustee of my husband’s lands, and until my son comes of age, I am the one who runs them.”

“That means she’s the magistrate,” the sheriff said, shaking William.

“Did you,” she asked, “stab a woman named Anne?”

“She stole from me.”

“Enough to warrant two dozen wounds?” Maude asked.

“The price of theft is death!” he shouted, spittle coming from his mouth. Apparently he felt that she would only understand him if he yelled.

“I determine the price of theft on these lands,” Maude said, amazed she could sound so calm. “Those women were injured. They wanted medical care.”

“Only one was injured,” he said.

“Yet you wanted her to work.”

He shrugged. “She done it before.”

Maude stared at him for a long moment. He stared back, unrepentant.

“I sentence you,” she said, “to a pilgrimage. You shall visit holy sites until you learn the meaning of humility.”

“How shall that be judged?” the sheriff asked.

“I believe it will take many years. Perhaps,” she said, “your pilgrimage shall be eternal. I shall think on it, and come to that decision by the morrow, when you shall be shipped out.”

“You cannot do this,” he said.

“We’ve already established that I can.”

“Those whores you’re so worried about will have no one to manage them.”

She felt cold. She hadn’t thought of that. She looked at the sheriff. “You shall bring them here. They shall learn useful work.”

“Milady, they may leave but that will not stop someone else from opening a stew,” the sheriff said.

“I am aware of that,” she said. “But at least it will not be William here.” She waved in dismissal. “Take him away.”

***

That evening, she sat alone in the chapel as the priest sent Anne’s soul on its way. Joan had been too ill to come. It would take many weeks for Joan to heal.

By then, Maude hoped the men she had sent to find the nearest Order of Saint Mary Magdalene would have returned with good news.

For it did not matter how a woman was born, as a daughter of Eve, or a daughter of Mary, she deserved to live a life free of brutality and pain.

Maude lived such a life, but she had not known it until now. And it had taken a sight that most would have shielded her from to teach her that she had strengths she had never expected.

She would hold these lands in trust for her son. And when he came of age, she would give them to him gladly, better than they had been when she came to them.

Better, because she had made them so.

 

 

Improvements

Copyright ©  Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Published by WMG Publishing

Cover and Layout copyright © WMG Publishing

Cover design by WMG Publishing

Cover art copyright © Alvaro Ennes/Dreamstime

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (“AI”) technologies is expressly prohibited. The author and publisher reserve all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

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Chapter 2

 

Imperium Capital

 

Dean Eratosthenes worked with the engineers to open a series of trade schools. Not everyone needed to go to the university to learn a trade, many of the hands-on jobs needed just that, hands-on training. What they set up was essentially a trade university—engineers, machinists, carpenters, plumbers, electricians,  and so on. Many worked off of an apprentice system which the natives were intimately familiar with.

---+--+-{0}-+--+---

Doctor Sue Carter recieved detailed files from Doctor Cassie O'Connell and her 3D printed organ and limb project. She was keen to implement such a practice in the Imperium.

They had some long-term cases in wards and hospicies in the city. There was also an institution for people with disabilities. Many elders were retired in homes across the kingdom. They tended to families and the hearth but would go hungry if the farm lacked food. Fortunately, that practice was ending in all but a few of the most isolated farms.

The doctor would love to help those people and more. There were so many that needed help, and like any good doctor, she was frustrated by her lack of tools in some cases. They had some cases where they had to sadly watch someone die and just comfort them in their end time.

She had made great strides with her students to improve things in the kingdom, but she was always aware that there was so much more that could be accomplished. Hopefully, Doctor O'Connell could arranage the time for a visit.

She had recently become aware of an institute for dead, dumb, and blind people in the capital and in several of the duchies. They were hovels, living off of whatever charity was thrown their way. She had started to change that for the better, giving the folks there a new lease on life. Just instituting better care practices, teaching brail and sign language, and basic medicine had made a large impact.

She was not sure about curing all of the blind folks; however, an exam had weeded those with a degnerative disease out from those who had cataracts or just very poor vision. The optotrician had performed a series of cataract surgeries for nearly a mens, what the natives called a month. Just that had gone a long way to clean out some of the folks in the properties.

The truly blind folks had to wait until they could find a means to surgically correct their eyes. She was still leery about attempting replacing an entire eye. Hooking up the optical nerves was scary.

They had also gotten to work on deaf people. Sadly so many deaf people had not been taught how to communicate by sign language. They had learned some rote activities but were considered stupid. She lacked corrective measures beyond the very basic and rudementary. That was changing though.

The time with the institutes had made her reconsider mandatory eye, nutrition, and hearing exams for children. Many children had poor grades and dropped out of school because of one of those three things. Getting to them early helped to change their lives for the better.

---+--+-{0}-+--+---

Diedra was overseeing the preparations for the upcoming Harvest Festival when word came in about the attack. She called the cabinet in and they listened to the radio as Ginger described the strike.

"Hopefully, this will serve as a lesson to them?" Winston, the treasurer, asked.

"Only if there were any survivors,"  Ciara, the dominus of textiles stated.

"And if they can get home safely. This happened off the coast of the Nuevo Imperium,"  Eugene frowned as he studied a map. "Ginger, any ideas on if any survived?"

"One small lifeboat got away. I don't know how many people were on it," the pilot reported.

"Okay," Eugene said with a nod. "So, they'll either flag down another of their ships or a merchant or fishing vessel."

"If they flag down one of the latter two, all money is off on the safety of the crew," Sergeant Waters, their gaijin expert in military matters, growled. They turned to him. "Remember the crap that pirates pulled off the coast of Africa? Small boat raiding or capturing ships at sea?"

Eugene, Charlie, Sue, Mary, and Max winced. The natives looked confused.

"Warlords off the coast of Africa sent small boats to attack shipping that was coming out of the Persian Gulf region," Mary explained. "They had small fast boats with weapons. They would run up to a bigger ship, many of which didn't mount a watch, then get on board and take the crew hostage. Sometimes they tortured and killed the crew. They would then sell the cargo and ship back to the proper owners."

The natives grimaced.

"The navy got involved. Many navies actually," Ginger stated. "They did like we did or sent in commandos to rescue ships. The pirates are still a threat, but they are not pulling off many raids anymore, at least before we left that is."

Eugene nodded. "So, the crew of any ship that they encounter might be in danger and there is no way to warn them."

"Sorry," Ginger stated.

"Not your fault, Ginger, you did the right thing. We can't have it all our way," Eugene stated. He made a slight puttering sound. "Any other issues?"

"No. Well, yeah, I'm about out of munitions," Ginger reported. "I had four missiles, and it took all four to hit."

"Darn."

"The good news is that they don't have many of those ships," Ginger stated. "But I could use a replenishment."

Eugene looked to Max. He grunted and spread his fingers in a flicking motion. "We'll work on that," Eugene said slowly as he looked back to the radio. "How are you on fuel and parts?"

"Okay. When do we have another PBY coming?"

"Two more and two more DC-3s and then I'm done building them and the Douglas for the time being. I'm switching everything to the Hercules project," Max growled.

There was a long silence. "Hercules?"

"Yeah, we're going for that instead of a bomber. That platform has more flexibility, and the Bootstrap folks have the plans already," Max stated. Eugene nodded.

"Damn good idea!" Ginger stated. "Good range, lots of stuff we can do with that bird. Awesome. When do we get them?"

"We need the plans first. I just got a lot of stuff to sort out from them, and we're going to build the infrastructure too. Plus as many common parts with the other birds as we can."

"Good," Ginger said. "I can't wait to get my hands on the controls," she said. There was a slapping sound and then rubbing. Eugene snorted. Those that knew her knew that the pilot was eagerly rubbing her hands together in glee.

---+--+-{0}-+--+---

Paint me like one of your French girls, Jack.

Not this again.

I’m more of a Rubens type…

I am trying to delete this entire thread with my mind.

I was trying to touch my toes, but well, it’s a LOT of work.

 Sitrep:

So, dad's out of the hospital and recovering nicely. I'm better from this flu crud, and I'm starting to get into Trial by Fire.

I sent PRI 4 off to Rea Wednesday and she got it back to me Friday. I got it sorted and off to Goodlifeguide and here we are.

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Chapter 1

Imperium Capital

 

Work around the capital screeched to a halt with the arrival of the Bootstrap Colony shuttle. They first got warning of the craft’s arrival as it was coming down. Several of the Memes came with it as escort.

The craft did a series of S turns to burn off its excess speed and then came into land at the main runway which had been cleared of all air traffic.

Eugene and Deidra had hastily cleared their schedules to meet the visitors.

They met Jacklynn Smith and her copilot as a truck with a staircase was wheeled up to the still steaming craft. Jacklynn shook hands with each of them. “Sorry, a lot has happened since we last visited.”

“Ah. So, where is Mister Chambers?” Deidra asked politely.

“Ah. Yes. About him, that’s why we had a delay …”

---+--+-{0}-+--+---

Deidra was still quiet as she settled in with Eugene late that evening. The newcomers had been given guest quarters and were the talk of the city. Everyone wanted to meet them. They had agreed to a radio interview in the morning and a tour of one of the aircraft factories with Max.

She was still struggling with the idea of Mitch Chambers and his … what did she even call it?

How would she react if something like that happened to Eugene? She cuddled to him, spooning into him until it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended.

“It’s okay,” he finally said when she squeezed him again.

He rolled over and then looked in her eyes, stroking her face in the dark.

“I …”

He smiled a wan smile. “He isn’t dead.”

“But … if that ever happened to you …,” she was near tears.

“Or you? We’d make the best of it one day at a time. And we’d still love each other irregardless,” he said.

She smiled and kissed him. That turned into something more, and they made love gently, as much a renewal of their love as solace in each other’s arms for another couple’s misery.

---+--+-{0}-+--+---

“You have done some impressive things here. I mean, really,” Jacklynn said with a shake of her head. “That production run is impressive.”

“It is,” Eugene said with a nod.

“We’ve got what, Cessnas, the shuttle, C-130s, and the tanker at the moment?” Jacklynn asked. “Oh, and the helicopters and a couple of other birds. But you started with just a couple of computers and a CNC machine? Damn impressive.”

Eugene nodded but he had something else cooking in his mind. The arrival of the shuttle had finally poked a thought to the surface of his mind. He’d grabbed it and was ready to act on it.

He had finally realized what he’d been thinking about earlier when Deidra had mentioned Mitch Chambers.

“Speaking of your C-130s,” Eugene said with a slight lilt of inquiry in his tone of voice.

“Yes?” Jacklynn asked. They were eating lunch in the great room. She was a guest next to him.

“Do you think we can trade for a couple?”

She snorted. “How would we get them here? They aren’t space worthy,” she reminded him.

“Oh. Damn,” he said with a grimace. “I forgot that.”

“The amount of energy to transport a bird is insane,” Jacklynn said with a shake of her head.

“Besides, we’d need parts …,” Eugene sighed in defeat. “Never mind."

“Manuals … Training … mechanics …” Jacklynn said thoughtfully and then stopped. She shrugged after a moment. “Besides, the Memes won’t allow warcraft to be transported.”

“Oh. So, I guess that is out,” Eugene stated.

“But, I bet we could trade you the plans,” the pilot said thoughtfully.

Eugene was about to say something. Instead he blinked and slowly closed his mouth.

Jacklynn smirked a little at his expression.

“You think we can work that sort of a deal out?”

“Sure. I love your PBY design. We could use it on our colony. And you’ve got a few things we could use too,” she said. “Like that medicine your pharmacology people identified that could lead to faster healing drugs and that other one that fights cancer and aging.”

Eugene nodded slowly. “Think you could throw in a run of ICs for a half a dozen birds?”

“For, oh, a full shipment of what I said, and most of the stuff on my shopping list, sure,” she said with a shrug.

He blinked. After a moment, he stuck his hand out. She took it and shook it and then laughed. “Sorry, I’m a bit sticky,” she admitted.

He chuckled and wiped his hands on a cloth napkin. “I don’t mind. I’ve got kids; I’m used to it actually.”

She smiled.

---+--+-{0}-+--+---

In reply to Cassandra.

Agree with you about the drip feed of background during the year! Keeps me going during the long wait for the next book.
I dont think of Stephen as bodyguard, more reluctant part of house Ashford and hero on waiting? Im rather hoping that he gets afew happy interludes as the story progresses…
His family dont seem to be that great (expect Brigette?) suportive rather than caring/loving

In reply to Bill.

Fair comment, just surpised that the thread from book#1 hasn’t developed…

In reply to Tharaniya.

I wonder the same thing. Healing sigls seem like good candidates.

Stupid thought, but I wonder if it is possible to.. surgically implant a sigl inside of you and still be able to use it?

It sounds like a good ace to have up in your sleeve as a last resort, albeit risky in other aspects? I am not sure if I understand how sigls prescisly work either. You have to channel personal essentia through them while they are also in close enough proximity to you, right?