“That’s because you’re attending the wrong sorts of get-togethers,” Honor suggested with a twinkle. “Far be it from me to suggest that blue-blooded, natural born aristocrats like your honorable brother are a bit isolated from the simpler pleasures of life, but one thing I was always delighted about on Grayson is that even the snobbiest of steadholders isn’t ashamed to admit he likes an occasional beer.”

“The supposed virtues of a taste for beer are grossly exaggerated by those unfortunate souls blind to the superior virtues of a decent vintage,” William informed them both. “I don’t mind an occasional beer, myself. It certainly beats water. But why settle for second-best when a superior alternative is available?”

“We didn’t,” his brother replied. “We were wondering why you did.”

“Behave yourselves, children,” Honor scolded, feeling briefly more like their nanny than their political colleague, despite the fact that even the younger Alexander was well over twenty T-years older than she. “We have other things to discuss before we settle down to letting you two insult one another properly.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am,” White Haven said with a broad grin, and she shook her head fondly at him.

“Actually,” William said, his tone suddenly much more serious, “you’re quite right, Honor. We do have several things to discuss, including one concern I really wish didn’t have to be brought up.”

Honor sat back in her chair, eyes narrowing as she tasted his emotions. Despite the customary banter between the brothers, both of them radiated an underlying sense of tension frosted with anger. That much she was accustomed to; it was an inevitable consequence of the political situation they’d come to discuss. But she’d never before sensed anything quite like the level of… anxiety she was picking up from William at the moment. There was something new and especially pointed about his emotions, a sense of focused urgency. More than that, he seemed to be trying to suppress whatever it was—or at least to feel a hesitance about admitting its source which surprised her after all of the crises they’d weathered together by now.

“And what would that be?” she asked cautiously.

“Well…” William looked at her for a moment, then glanced at his brother and visibly drew a steadying breath.

“According to my sources,” he said in the voice of a man determined to get through difficult ground and setting up the groundwork for the journey, “we’re about to be hit with fresh naval reductions in the new budget. The new estimates are in, and it’s pretty clear that the termination of the Emergency Income Tax Act is about to start cutting into their slush funds and pork barrel pretty badly. They don’t like that one bit, but they’re not stupid enough to try to renew it. Not when they know we’ll kill it in the Commons and use the opportunity to both advertise their real spending priorities and simultaneously deprive them of the ability to go on blaming us for all of the Kingdom’s fiscal woes. So instead, Janacek is going to recommend cutting our active duty ships of the wall by about twenty percent to free up funds from the other ‘wartime taxes.’ He’s also planning to suspend construction on virtually all the incomplete SD(P)s for the same reason, and High Ridge thinks he’s found a way to neutralize you and Hamish when the new cuts are debated in the Lords.”