Look Up.
Postcards From New Hope
(Or How to Grow a Woman from the Ground)
*
Part II
*
The young man staring at Hope is dressed uniformly in chestnut and a deep, hunter green. These are the colours worn by serving attendants in Sir Will and Lady Jocelyn’s household on any given evening.
“Didn’t your Mother teach you not to stare?” asks Hope crossly, regretting her rudeness even as the words leave her mouth.
“Didn’t yours teach you any manners?” The young man, perhaps a few years older than Hope is herself, archly raises an eyebrow.
After almost taking a step backwards in surprise, Hope raises her chin and returns his stare. The server holds forward the tray he is holding; long stemmed glasses with deep red liquid.
“More wine, My Lady?” He asks, his tone decidedly flippant.
With her mouth pursed, Hope reaches forward and takes a glass. Common sense says she should leave it at that, speak her thanks and return to the guests.
But, “My Mother is dead,” says Hope leadingly, her eyes searching the boy’s face for traces of recognition. It’s not conceit; she’s grown up in a world where everyone seems to know her - and if not, her mother - instinctively. Sometimes Hope thinks that other people know her better than she knows herself.
But to Hope’s amazement, the boy nods enthusiastically. “Yes, I know.”
Deciding that this is her moment to make an affronted exit - Lady Jocelyn has been rubbing off on her already, Ma and Pa would be shocked at her dramatics - Hope gathers her skirts with her empty left hand, and begins to move away.
“Wait,” says the server hurriedly. “You really don’t recognize me?”
Hope slowly turns back round, slightly peeved that her dramatic effect is ruined, to face the young man. She scrutinizes him from head to toe. He’s tall and lean, with long limbs, light brown hair cropped short and an expressive mouth. Hope feels, as she often has since her arrival in Mindelan’s Bound, that she’s been through this before.
Staring at the server, Hope can remember the itchy fabric of her Mother’s riding breeches against her palms, her face, as she peeks around at the city children who are as bold as brass. The memory comes with a pack of others; tearing across Market Square in the crisp, but sunny fall days, chasing down boys and girls to tag, laughing with glee all the while, and playing pretend in the King’s Own stable lofts.
The image that sticks in Hope’s mind, though, is one of water. She remembers sitting on her hands, circulation draining, feet dangling, and across from two boys in a boat. Their father stands at the stern, large and steady, hauling on a fishing net. Seagulls are swooping overhead, looking for lunch.
Hope recalls looking down at her clothing, a fussy black dress, strange next to the boys’ practical layers. She’d covered the dress, later that day, with relief and a borrowed sweater that went down to her knees. The man had patiently rolled up the sleeves until she could use her hands, and tousled her mousey brown hair.
In front of Hope now was a younger, narrower version of the man in her memory. She thinks back to the boys in the boat with dawning realization. The elder boy in her memory of the boat, is all practicality and kindness. The other, though, is accompanied by a certain sense of mischief and recklessness.
“Strahan?”
He grins. “At your service.”
Now it’s Hope’s turn to stare; it’s strange and overwhelming to think that the people from her early childhood - which is another world entirely - might be wandering around Tortall. And in plain sight, like real living, breathing people.
“What are you doing here?” Is the question that comes out of Hope’s mouth, eventually, in a jumbled mess.
The boy, Strahan, Hope corrects herself, shrugs. “Lady Jocelyn knows that a life in theatre doesn’t pay the bills - she’s kind enough to give me work here, when she can.”
“You’re a player?”
Strahan smiles at Hope’s wide-eyed incredulity and shifts from one foot to the other. “Amongst other things.”
“Like what?” asks Hope, excitedly. “Do you still fish with your Da?”
“Well,” says Strahan, almost apologetically. “Fishing is more Jorge’s thing than mine.”
“Jorge!” Hope claps her hands over her mouth, surprised by how loud the name came out, glances around at the guest who are beginning to stare, and then lowers them carefully, grinning at Strahan. “He’s still here too?”
“Where else would he go?” asks Strahan, smirking.
“Oh,” says Hope, at a loss.
And then, “Will you take me to see them? Your family? When you’re done work, I mean. Or another time, when you’re not busy.”
Strahan laughs, puts down his tray and sends a furtive glance in Lady Jocelyn’s direction before tilting his head towards the server’s entrance.
“C’mon, let’s go.”
Hope blinks, and pushes a stray curl out of her face. “Won’t you... I mean I know I’ll get in trouble.” She sends her own furtive glance towards Sir Will, and then looks down.
“And I’m hardly dressed for-”
Here Strahan interrupts, flapping at hand at her. “Excuses. Are you coming or not?”
Hope sighs, hesitating for a minute, and thinks about the book of letters tucked under her mattress upstairs.
“Of course I am, silly.”
*
Hope feels bold, and not quite like herself, as she walks through the dark streets with Strahan at her side. Mindelan’s Bound is quiet at night, even in the summer. Even with it’s sizeable population of ex-convicts, the city has one of the lowest crime rates in Tortall, but Sir Will and Lady Jocelyn will, no doubt, have some choice words for Hope about strange men and nighttime excursions.
The merriment of the summering nobles is forced indoors, unlike in the South, by a cool climate and vicious blackflies. Orange light spills forth from the street-side windows and mixes with the dancing yellow in the gas-lit lamps. Hope marvels at the street lanterns, so unlike anything she’s encountered growing up in Jesslaw. It’s as though each box holds a star for safe-keeping.
When she tells Strahan as much, he throws his head back and laughs loudly, though not unkindly, and Hope falls silent, feeling very much the backwards country girl.
He leads her down the hill, through the merchant district, past the city councils, and into the poorer quarters of the city. The buildings grow shorter and aging wood is covered by chipped, but brightly coloured, paint; the last line of defense against the elements.
Children tear through the streets here, running wild, though their adults are tucked inside, weary after a long day’s work. Some of the children stop to stare at Hope, and one small girl skips beside Strahan, sending Hope a side-long glance.
“I like your dress,” she says after a minute of awkward silence.
“Thank you,” replies Hope, self-consciously tugging her wrap tight around her shoulders. Next to her soft custom-fitted, grey-blue dress, the child’s own tunic and skirt look like rags. “I like your skipping rope.”
The girl beams. “Me too. Are you any good?”
“I don’t want to brag,” grins Hope, “But I was the best in all of Jesslaw.”
Strahan and the girl share a look.
“What was that about?” Hope glances up at Strahan, inquiringly.
“Well,” says Strahan reluctantly, and it’s Hope’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Cat got your tongue, my good Sir?” she teases.
Strahan laughs. “I am certainly no knight. And you, My Lady, are not in Jesslaw anymore.”
Hope stops in the middle of the street to kick off her insensible shoes; her audience gawks. She smiles at them. “Of course, its been a while...”
“What do you think you’re doing,” sighs Strahan. “Hope, My Lady.”
Hope ignores him and holds her hand out to the little girl. “Give it here.”
*
Kel has had an overwhelming day, what with her two best friends, her former Knight Master, and her mentor all getting married. She’s happy for them, of course, and smiles when the two couples gaze adoringly at their new spouses, tripping over themselves like a bunch of lovelorn puppies (with the notable exception of Buri, who Kel feels sure has several daggers hidden under her gown and boots).
She’s sad though, too, and then feels guilty that she can’t even enjoy her friends’ weddings without making it about her. Sure, she’s killed the nasty Scanran mage and saved - some of - her refugees, and she’s not even headed for Traitors’ Hill. But there’s no law that says she’s entitled to a love life, too. Still, when Dom winks at her from behind Raoul’s back, during a particularly sappy speech, Kel grins back and rolls her eyes.
It’s perhaps out of character, but not entirely surprising then, that Kel finds herself, in the early hours of the morning, pressed up against a wall in the soldiers’ barracks, one of Dom’s hands on her hip, just underneath her tunic, the other on the small of her back.
To be honest, Kel isn’t overly impressed when Dom takes his tongue out of her mouth and steps back, worry written all over his face.
“Seriously?” she asks.
Dom crosses his arms over his chest.
Kel sighs. “What is it?”
After a few moments, Dom says, “I might as well tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I made a promise.”
This can’t be good. “To whom did you make a promise, Dom?”
“Neal.”
Kel closes her eyes in dread. “When was this?”
“The day that Lord Raoul asked you to be his squire,” admits Dom.
“I told him,” continues Dom, with no regard for the sinking feeling in Kel’s stomach, “That I’d never take advantage of you.”
Kel’s eyes snap open incredulously. “Seriously, Dom?”
The Sergeant shrugs defensively. “You were young, I was older, Neal was worried.”
“He should be worried,” mutters Kel, quietly furious.
“As it was, you had more than enough on your plate. Without men stepping in, trying to mess things up,” Dom points this out, in what he seems to think is a rational manner.
“My whole life,” says Kel, “Has been men stepping in, trying to mess things up.”
“Kel,” says Dom apologetically.
He reaches out towards her, but she’s had enough.
“Don’t bother,” says Kel. “I can take care of myself.”
*
Strahan can’t stop laughing as he digs around in his pocket for his door key.
“The look on your face,” he exclaims. “When you realized that your skirts were stopping the rope from turning, was priceless.”
Hope rolls her eyes. “I’m glad you find it amusing.”
“Amusing?” Repeats Strahan, his eyes shining with mirth. “I thought you were going to tear them off, right then and there.”
Hope giggles a little. It’s nice to be around someone who laughs so much.
As Strahan reaches out to put his key in the lock, the front door to his house swings open. A man - the man from the boat, older now - beams out at Hope and his son.
“We’ve been expecting you,” he says, standing back to make room for them.
“How did you know I was coming?” asks Hope, at a complete loss.
The man smiles kindly. “My wife knows these things.”
“You probably don’t remember an old man like me,” he continues. “I’m Tomas.”
Hope smiles up at him. “I do remember you, you know.”
Tomas takes a moment to glow before he turns, calls over his shoulder “Irnai, she’s here!”
Strahan ushers Hope into the home’s small kitchen where a middle-aged woman with her greying hair swept elegantly into a bun is sitting, darning a pair of socks.
“Hope, my love,” she says. “Come and have a cup of tea.”
*
“Your Ma is amazing,” Hope tells Strahan later that evening, as he walks her back uptown, to the Jesslaw’s city home. She can barely stop herself from talking. “Your Da, too. I’m only sorry that I didn’t get to see Jorge.”
A somewhat subdued Strahan shrugs. “Perhaps another time.”
“Right,” says Hope. “Tell your Ma that I said ‘thank you’ a million times.”
Strahan grins in spite of himself. “Actually, at this point, I think that you may have.”
Hope is feeling comfortable enough with Strahan to elbow him in the side.
“Ow, Hope, that hurt!”
“Who’s the tough city-boy now?”
Strahan turns to look at her, eyebrows hovering somewhere around the middle of his forehead. “I sincerely hope that it’s not you.”
Hope sobers. “Strahan,” she says. “Can I ask you a favour?”
“Well that would depend,” answers Strahan. “On whether you’re planning to attack me again.”
“I didn’t attack you!”
Strahan coughs pointedly.
“Alright,” concedes Hope, “I promise that I won’t elbow you again.”
“Okay,” says Strahan nobly. “Apology accepted.”
“I didn’t apologize.”
Strahan sniffs. “I’m overlooking the fact that you grew up motherless, thus were never taught any manners.”
“I had a Mother,” argues Hope, indignant.
“Sorry,” backpedals Strahan. “I probably shouldn’t tease.”
“It’s not that,” says Hope, trying to explain. “You just don’t understand. Lord Owen and Lady Margarry took me in as their daughter, not just their ward. They’re my Ma and Pa, too.”
“Oh.”
“And I love them like the family that they’ve been to me. Will is like a great, big, annoying older brother,” Hope trails off.
“But,” prompts Strahan, reading between the lines.
“Is it awful,” asks Hope, “That I want to find my real father?”
Strahan stops halfway up the hill and Hope pauses too. She’s grateful for a chance to catch her breath, even if the night air is cold, and her fingers are slowly turning numb. He fidgets with the ring on his right index finger; a small gold band with a ruby in the middle.
“Hope,” he begins slowly, choosing his words so that they won’t offend. “Do you know who your father is?”
“No,” says Hope quite simply. “That’s why I need your help.”
*
Will is pacing by the fireplace, his wife snapping at him to stand still, when a trio of officers from the City Guard finally find Hope, half a block away from the Jesslaw’s townhome.
“Are you Lady Hope?” asks one guard, wearily.
“Yes,” says Hope. “I am.”
“Next time,” says Chief of Guards Tobeis Boon. “Please consider leaving a note."
*
Kel has only ever climbed the New Hope watchtower a handful of times. The fear of heights that paralyzed her in youth is no longer all-consuming, but she’s not about to start building treehouses for the sheer joy.
The watchtower, once upon a time a fair walk from the village has been swallowed up by growth and expansion. It’s awe-inspiring, thinks Kel staring down at the roofs of houses, that when she first came upon this piece of land, none of this had been here.
The theatre is a bit of an eyesore, to be sure, but that was a battle that she had a lost; and a constant reminder that she could no longer protect them all - the southerners and traders, nobles and artisans - who had chosen to move here, pushing beyond the logistics of existing defense.
Of course, that doesn’t mean that Keladry wouldn’t defend this city with her life.
And as the story goes, well, that’s exactly how the story goes.
*
Part One can be found here or if you are wondering... Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven
(Or How to Grow a Woman from the Ground)
*
Part II
*
The young man staring at Hope is dressed uniformly in chestnut and a deep, hunter green. These are the colours worn by serving attendants in Sir Will and Lady Jocelyn’s household on any given evening.
“Didn’t your Mother teach you not to stare?” asks Hope crossly, regretting her rudeness even as the words leave her mouth.
“Didn’t yours teach you any manners?” The young man, perhaps a few years older than Hope is herself, archly raises an eyebrow.
After almost taking a step backwards in surprise, Hope raises her chin and returns his stare. The server holds forward the tray he is holding; long stemmed glasses with deep red liquid.
“More wine, My Lady?” He asks, his tone decidedly flippant.
With her mouth pursed, Hope reaches forward and takes a glass. Common sense says she should leave it at that, speak her thanks and return to the guests.
But, “My Mother is dead,” says Hope leadingly, her eyes searching the boy’s face for traces of recognition. It’s not conceit; she’s grown up in a world where everyone seems to know her - and if not, her mother - instinctively. Sometimes Hope thinks that other people know her better than she knows herself.
But to Hope’s amazement, the boy nods enthusiastically. “Yes, I know.”
Deciding that this is her moment to make an affronted exit - Lady Jocelyn has been rubbing off on her already, Ma and Pa would be shocked at her dramatics - Hope gathers her skirts with her empty left hand, and begins to move away.
“Wait,” says the server hurriedly. “You really don’t recognize me?”
Hope slowly turns back round, slightly peeved that her dramatic effect is ruined, to face the young man. She scrutinizes him from head to toe. He’s tall and lean, with long limbs, light brown hair cropped short and an expressive mouth. Hope feels, as she often has since her arrival in Mindelan’s Bound, that she’s been through this before.
Staring at the server, Hope can remember the itchy fabric of her Mother’s riding breeches against her palms, her face, as she peeks around at the city children who are as bold as brass. The memory comes with a pack of others; tearing across Market Square in the crisp, but sunny fall days, chasing down boys and girls to tag, laughing with glee all the while, and playing pretend in the King’s Own stable lofts.
The image that sticks in Hope’s mind, though, is one of water. She remembers sitting on her hands, circulation draining, feet dangling, and across from two boys in a boat. Their father stands at the stern, large and steady, hauling on a fishing net. Seagulls are swooping overhead, looking for lunch.
Hope recalls looking down at her clothing, a fussy black dress, strange next to the boys’ practical layers. She’d covered the dress, later that day, with relief and a borrowed sweater that went down to her knees. The man had patiently rolled up the sleeves until she could use her hands, and tousled her mousey brown hair.
In front of Hope now was a younger, narrower version of the man in her memory. She thinks back to the boys in the boat with dawning realization. The elder boy in her memory of the boat, is all practicality and kindness. The other, though, is accompanied by a certain sense of mischief and recklessness.
“Strahan?”
He grins. “At your service.”
Now it’s Hope’s turn to stare; it’s strange and overwhelming to think that the people from her early childhood - which is another world entirely - might be wandering around Tortall. And in plain sight, like real living, breathing people.
“What are you doing here?” Is the question that comes out of Hope’s mouth, eventually, in a jumbled mess.
The boy, Strahan, Hope corrects herself, shrugs. “Lady Jocelyn knows that a life in theatre doesn’t pay the bills - she’s kind enough to give me work here, when she can.”
“You’re a player?”
Strahan smiles at Hope’s wide-eyed incredulity and shifts from one foot to the other. “Amongst other things.”
“Like what?” asks Hope, excitedly. “Do you still fish with your Da?”
“Well,” says Strahan, almost apologetically. “Fishing is more Jorge’s thing than mine.”
“Jorge!” Hope claps her hands over her mouth, surprised by how loud the name came out, glances around at the guest who are beginning to stare, and then lowers them carefully, grinning at Strahan. “He’s still here too?”
“Where else would he go?” asks Strahan, smirking.
“Oh,” says Hope, at a loss.
And then, “Will you take me to see them? Your family? When you’re done work, I mean. Or another time, when you’re not busy.”
Strahan laughs, puts down his tray and sends a furtive glance in Lady Jocelyn’s direction before tilting his head towards the server’s entrance.
“C’mon, let’s go.”
Hope blinks, and pushes a stray curl out of her face. “Won’t you... I mean I know I’ll get in trouble.” She sends her own furtive glance towards Sir Will, and then looks down.
“And I’m hardly dressed for-”
Here Strahan interrupts, flapping at hand at her. “Excuses. Are you coming or not?”
Hope sighs, hesitating for a minute, and thinks about the book of letters tucked under her mattress upstairs.
“Of course I am, silly.”
*
Hope feels bold, and not quite like herself, as she walks through the dark streets with Strahan at her side. Mindelan’s Bound is quiet at night, even in the summer. Even with it’s sizeable population of ex-convicts, the city has one of the lowest crime rates in Tortall, but Sir Will and Lady Jocelyn will, no doubt, have some choice words for Hope about strange men and nighttime excursions.
The merriment of the summering nobles is forced indoors, unlike in the South, by a cool climate and vicious blackflies. Orange light spills forth from the street-side windows and mixes with the dancing yellow in the gas-lit lamps. Hope marvels at the street lanterns, so unlike anything she’s encountered growing up in Jesslaw. It’s as though each box holds a star for safe-keeping.
When she tells Strahan as much, he throws his head back and laughs loudly, though not unkindly, and Hope falls silent, feeling very much the backwards country girl.
He leads her down the hill, through the merchant district, past the city councils, and into the poorer quarters of the city. The buildings grow shorter and aging wood is covered by chipped, but brightly coloured, paint; the last line of defense against the elements.
Children tear through the streets here, running wild, though their adults are tucked inside, weary after a long day’s work. Some of the children stop to stare at Hope, and one small girl skips beside Strahan, sending Hope a side-long glance.
“I like your dress,” she says after a minute of awkward silence.
“Thank you,” replies Hope, self-consciously tugging her wrap tight around her shoulders. Next to her soft custom-fitted, grey-blue dress, the child’s own tunic and skirt look like rags. “I like your skipping rope.”
The girl beams. “Me too. Are you any good?”
“I don’t want to brag,” grins Hope, “But I was the best in all of Jesslaw.”
Strahan and the girl share a look.
“What was that about?” Hope glances up at Strahan, inquiringly.
“Well,” says Strahan reluctantly, and it’s Hope’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Cat got your tongue, my good Sir?” she teases.
Strahan laughs. “I am certainly no knight. And you, My Lady, are not in Jesslaw anymore.”
Hope stops in the middle of the street to kick off her insensible shoes; her audience gawks. She smiles at them. “Of course, its been a while...”
“What do you think you’re doing,” sighs Strahan. “Hope, My Lady.”
Hope ignores him and holds her hand out to the little girl. “Give it here.”
*
Kel has had an overwhelming day, what with her two best friends, her former Knight Master, and her mentor all getting married. She’s happy for them, of course, and smiles when the two couples gaze adoringly at their new spouses, tripping over themselves like a bunch of lovelorn puppies (with the notable exception of Buri, who Kel feels sure has several daggers hidden under her gown and boots).
She’s sad though, too, and then feels guilty that she can’t even enjoy her friends’ weddings without making it about her. Sure, she’s killed the nasty Scanran mage and saved - some of - her refugees, and she’s not even headed for Traitors’ Hill. But there’s no law that says she’s entitled to a love life, too. Still, when Dom winks at her from behind Raoul’s back, during a particularly sappy speech, Kel grins back and rolls her eyes.
It’s perhaps out of character, but not entirely surprising then, that Kel finds herself, in the early hours of the morning, pressed up against a wall in the soldiers’ barracks, one of Dom’s hands on her hip, just underneath her tunic, the other on the small of her back.
To be honest, Kel isn’t overly impressed when Dom takes his tongue out of her mouth and steps back, worry written all over his face.
“Seriously?” she asks.
Dom crosses his arms over his chest.
Kel sighs. “What is it?”
After a few moments, Dom says, “I might as well tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I made a promise.”
This can’t be good. “To whom did you make a promise, Dom?”
“Neal.”
Kel closes her eyes in dread. “When was this?”
“The day that Lord Raoul asked you to be his squire,” admits Dom.
“I told him,” continues Dom, with no regard for the sinking feeling in Kel’s stomach, “That I’d never take advantage of you.”
Kel’s eyes snap open incredulously. “Seriously, Dom?”
The Sergeant shrugs defensively. “You were young, I was older, Neal was worried.”
“He should be worried,” mutters Kel, quietly furious.
“As it was, you had more than enough on your plate. Without men stepping in, trying to mess things up,” Dom points this out, in what he seems to think is a rational manner.
“My whole life,” says Kel, “Has been men stepping in, trying to mess things up.”
“Kel,” says Dom apologetically.
He reaches out towards her, but she’s had enough.
“Don’t bother,” says Kel. “I can take care of myself.”
*
Strahan can’t stop laughing as he digs around in his pocket for his door key.
“The look on your face,” he exclaims. “When you realized that your skirts were stopping the rope from turning, was priceless.”
Hope rolls her eyes. “I’m glad you find it amusing.”
“Amusing?” Repeats Strahan, his eyes shining with mirth. “I thought you were going to tear them off, right then and there.”
Hope giggles a little. It’s nice to be around someone who laughs so much.
As Strahan reaches out to put his key in the lock, the front door to his house swings open. A man - the man from the boat, older now - beams out at Hope and his son.
“We’ve been expecting you,” he says, standing back to make room for them.
“How did you know I was coming?” asks Hope, at a complete loss.
The man smiles kindly. “My wife knows these things.”
“You probably don’t remember an old man like me,” he continues. “I’m Tomas.”
Hope smiles up at him. “I do remember you, you know.”
Tomas takes a moment to glow before he turns, calls over his shoulder “Irnai, she’s here!”
Strahan ushers Hope into the home’s small kitchen where a middle-aged woman with her greying hair swept elegantly into a bun is sitting, darning a pair of socks.
“Hope, my love,” she says. “Come and have a cup of tea.”
*
“Your Ma is amazing,” Hope tells Strahan later that evening, as he walks her back uptown, to the Jesslaw’s city home. She can barely stop herself from talking. “Your Da, too. I’m only sorry that I didn’t get to see Jorge.”
A somewhat subdued Strahan shrugs. “Perhaps another time.”
“Right,” says Hope. “Tell your Ma that I said ‘thank you’ a million times.”
Strahan grins in spite of himself. “Actually, at this point, I think that you may have.”
Hope is feeling comfortable enough with Strahan to elbow him in the side.
“Ow, Hope, that hurt!”
“Who’s the tough city-boy now?”
Strahan turns to look at her, eyebrows hovering somewhere around the middle of his forehead. “I sincerely hope that it’s not you.”
Hope sobers. “Strahan,” she says. “Can I ask you a favour?”
“Well that would depend,” answers Strahan. “On whether you’re planning to attack me again.”
“I didn’t attack you!”
Strahan coughs pointedly.
“Alright,” concedes Hope, “I promise that I won’t elbow you again.”
“Okay,” says Strahan nobly. “Apology accepted.”
“I didn’t apologize.”
Strahan sniffs. “I’m overlooking the fact that you grew up motherless, thus were never taught any manners.”
“I had a Mother,” argues Hope, indignant.
“Sorry,” backpedals Strahan. “I probably shouldn’t tease.”
“It’s not that,” says Hope, trying to explain. “You just don’t understand. Lord Owen and Lady Margarry took me in as their daughter, not just their ward. They’re my Ma and Pa, too.”
“Oh.”
“And I love them like the family that they’ve been to me. Will is like a great, big, annoying older brother,” Hope trails off.
“But,” prompts Strahan, reading between the lines.
“Is it awful,” asks Hope, “That I want to find my real father?”
Strahan stops halfway up the hill and Hope pauses too. She’s grateful for a chance to catch her breath, even if the night air is cold, and her fingers are slowly turning numb. He fidgets with the ring on his right index finger; a small gold band with a ruby in the middle.
“Hope,” he begins slowly, choosing his words so that they won’t offend. “Do you know who your father is?”
“No,” says Hope quite simply. “That’s why I need your help.”
*
Will is pacing by the fireplace, his wife snapping at him to stand still, when a trio of officers from the City Guard finally find Hope, half a block away from the Jesslaw’s townhome.
“Are you Lady Hope?” asks one guard, wearily.
“Yes,” says Hope. “I am.”
“Next time,” says Chief of Guards Tobeis Boon. “Please consider leaving a note."
*
Kel has only ever climbed the New Hope watchtower a handful of times. The fear of heights that paralyzed her in youth is no longer all-consuming, but she’s not about to start building treehouses for the sheer joy.
The watchtower, once upon a time a fair walk from the village has been swallowed up by growth and expansion. It’s awe-inspiring, thinks Kel staring down at the roofs of houses, that when she first came upon this piece of land, none of this had been here.
The theatre is a bit of an eyesore, to be sure, but that was a battle that she had a lost; and a constant reminder that she could no longer protect them all - the southerners and traders, nobles and artisans - who had chosen to move here, pushing beyond the logistics of existing defense.
Of course, that doesn’t mean that Keladry wouldn’t defend this city with her life.
And as the story goes, well, that’s exactly how the story goes.
*
Part One can be found here or if you are wondering... Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven