Dedication

For Kelsey

Poem

West, west, west to the ocean

Onward to the sea

The steps we take, so in our wake

Our subjects can live free

A strong and watched o’er people

Under our banner high

West, west, west to the ocean

Further, to the sky

Chapter One

Chapter One

When Scratch had envisioned this day, she hadn’t anticipated that her pants would be so tight.

“Would you stop fidgeting?” James poked her with the back of his fork. “You look gassy.”

“I’m not gassy. It’s the pants.”

He scrunched his forehead, his robust eyebrows merging into one dense hedge. “The pants are gassy?”

She frowned at him. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” he asked, blinking his wide green eyes with an air of well-practiced innocence.

“Trying to make me less nervous.”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

Beneath the uncompromising waistband of the damned pants, her stomach churned. Her skin itched, hidden under three layers of military pomp. Around her, the sounds of feasting and revelry blurred to an unfocused din, like the hum of some monstrously large, drunk bumblebee. The banquet hall was massive, with its tall beams, vast tapestries, and wrought-iron torches casting shifting shadows against the ancient stone walls. Still, it seemed too full, too many soldiers packing the place with their ale-soaked cheers and slurred song. On a metal plate before her, a chunk of ham and a few wedges of potato sweat uninvitingly. She hadn’t taken a bite.

“Eat something,” James urged, apparently reading her mind. “You look ill.”

“Maybe I am ill.”

“You aren’t ill.”

“Maybe I’m dying.”

“Scratch, darling.” He set a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We’re all dying.”

She diligently cut herself a square of ham, chewing it for what felt an appropriate length of time, and swallowed it down, choking. It tasted like dirt.

“Feel better?”

“Oh yes, Jamie.” She chased the ham with a rictus grin. “Splendid.”

“Come on now.” He smiled, flashing a retaining wall of perfectly white teeth. “It’s your special day, My Lady.”

So it was, though very little felt special about it. She and James sat at their usual table, eating the usual fare, to the familiar off-key tune of the same-as-always minstrels. On the dais just ahead, the king and his court dined before a backdrop of stained-glass gods, reflective effigies flickering in the torchlight. The king was shouting, his face cheerful and ruddy with drink. His crown listed dangerously over his mane of yellowy-white hair, nearly the same shade as Scratch’s own.

Come on, she thought in his general direction. Do it now.

Predictably, the man did nothing.

A drunken band of foot soldiers strolled by, bumping into her back, bonking her ribs against the table.

“Evening, Bowstring!” they slurred in slippery chorus.

“Evening, boys,” James replied, lifting his tankard to them. “Stay upright, yeah? Long night ahead.”

Scratch scowled, watching them go. “Pleased, Bowstring?”