Lost Destinies

↳ 33: Representation For The Mentally Impaired

Wolfgang entered his chambers, loosening his cravat and discarding his coat on the rack. He was surprised to see Aveline curled up on the bed, sniffling. He supposed she did cry easily. Perhaps she'd crushed a bug underfoot by accident.

"Avi?"

He stepped towards his bed, resting against a canopy support beam. Aveline hastily wiped her eyes, neatening her dress. "Um, I went to the meeting."

"Ah, yes, the meeting I couldn't make. I had a delightful time sitting in the senate instead." He frowned. "It didn't go well?"

"It was always stupid," she muttered, rubbing her arms. "I never should've said anything. I think Camilla probably hates me now."

Wolfgang settled beside her. "Nonsense, can't have been that bad. You should see what goes on in the throne room every day. I'm sure Camilla means well. She's been nervous lately. Things have gotten quite out of her control."

Aveline pressed into him, taking calming breaths. He smelled like a mix of his expensive cologne and the rain. It had drizzled all morning. Then, suddenly, she sneezed, ruining the quiet moment. A small puff of feathers drifted into the air. "Ugh! I hate that that still happens," she grumbled, the meeting disaster very nearly forgotten.

He plucked a small white feather off his shoulder. "I find I'm not too fond of magic after everything that happened," he admitted.

"Well, who would be? Do you have any idea what being a feather duster for a year does to your back? Nightmarish."

"Nothing worse than I could do," he mused, kissing her cheek. Aveline's jaw dropped, startled by his vulgarity, and she flicked his face away, making him laugh. She reached for the television remote, slumping back onto the pillows and clicking it on.

"This is Emma Thomas reporting live from RNN. We are at the western border, where the docks are being overrun..."

"Oh, don't turn on the news," Wolfgang complained, getting up to undo his cravat and drop it on the dressing table. He opened up a fresh box of cigars and slid one out. "I have to hear it all day."

Aveline was watching the TV with alarm. "No, Wolfgang, listen."

He turned, cigar midway to his mouth. On the screen, there was carnage. The reporter was straining to be heard through her microphone over crashing waves at shore and the sounds of shouting and chaos. The camera panned to take in the scene—legions of filthy, raggedy pirates, blades bared, were making their way onto the docks, wrestling with border patrol agents and dockworkers. People were fleeing in terror. An explosion went off, and the reporter ducked.

"Bullets are flying! That'll be all I can get for now, folks—we're going to find a safer vantage point, so stay tuned for more coverage. I'm Emma Thomas, reporting from RNN, on channel—"

Another explosion rocked the screen, and the news switched abruptly to commercial break.

"What. The. Hell." Wolfgang immediately went searching for his phone. "I have to call the Department of Defense."

"I'm sure they already know," said Aveline, brown eyes wide.

"Border patrol needs backup."

She sat up. "What are they doing trying to invade? I thought there was a treaty?"

"There was." He finished dialing, holding up the phone to his ear. "Until about five minutes ago when he decided to do this."

"'He'?"

"They've got a leader. Unofficially. They call him Bluebeard. He owns the most territory on the high seas. Whatever he says, goes." Aveline opened her mouth to ask more, but he held up a finger. "Hang on, Avi. I need to figure out what's going on."