Page 8 of A Fragile Enchantment

“It’s a scandal sheet of sorts,” he replied. “Although, I confess, the author has a strange sensibility.”

“How do you mean?”

“There is, of course, the typical Season gossip, but they always connect it to politics. Lovelace styles themself as some sort of champion for the downtrodden, but it’s all fustian nonsense.” Sinclair leaned back in his chair. “I don’t disagree with their message, of course, but they’ve been pushing their political agenda for almost three years now and have gotten nothing for their efforts. What I have to admire, though, is that they absolutelyloatheJack. They’ve been poking at him relentlessly for as long as they’ve been writing.”

“Really?” Niamh’s voice dropped to a whisper. While she hardly knew the man, she couldn’t imagine him abiding any kind of open ridicule for three minutes, much less three years. He seemed far too proud. “Why haven’t they been stopped?”

“If Jack could catch them, I’m sure they would be imprisoned at the very least. Not even their publisher knows who they are, but somehow, they know everything about everyone.” He crumbled a biscuit absently into pieces. “Anyone who’s mentioned in the column is sent a copy the day before it’s published. It’s meant as an opportunity to bribe Lovelace for their silence. Don’t ask me how I know.”

“They have written about you?”

“A few times, yes, although my father, the Duke of Pelinor, took it worse than I did. It’s not as bad as it sounds. There’s something almost freeing about having the worst of you already exposed.” She could hear the undercurrent of anger in his voice, thelie,evenbeneath his blasé tone. Although they’d just met, it hurt to watch him gloss over something that clearly still pained him. “They’re a nuisance, but they can be interesting from time to time. Would you like to see?”

Niamh hesitated. It was almost certainly wrong to indulge in idle gossip about her employer, but she did love a little scandal every now and again. “I would.”

He rang for a servant to bring themThe Daily Chronicle.When it arrived, he asked, not unkindly, “Can you read?”

It was a fair question; few common girls could. Her mother had taught her, but she so rarely read anything but captions in fashion magazines. “Well enough, I hope.”

He handed it to her. The paper was creased and torn from where people must have snatched it from one another’s hands. Niamh fumbled to open it, trying not to feel horribly provincial.

She’d never seen a publication quite like this before. Receiving news daily seemed an unthinkable wonder to her, far stranger than magic. In Caterlow, information reached them slowly. News from the continent could take a month to arrive in Machlish cities, two weeks from Avaland, and from overseas, it could sometimes take half a year. Add another week for it to filter to villages like Caterlow, where one of the few literate folks in town recited the paper in the pub. They hadn’t much need for gossip columns, anyway. Everybody knew one another’s business. If you spoke a secret aloud, the wind would carry it to every home in the village before the day’s end.

The Chronicle,to her dismay, proved quite difficult to read. The print was so small, as though the typesetter had struggled to cram every story onto the first page. Niamh squinted, sorely wishing she had a magnifying glass. She flipped to the last page, and there, tucked between advertisements for carriages and petticoats, was a section calledThe Tattler.

Lovelace, it seemed, referred to everyone they mentioned byepithets, but the details seemed incriminating enough for anyone well-connected to guess their true identities. And others, she found, were barely disguised at all.

I recently heard of a disastrous breakfast at the household of one Lord W—, who you may recall from a few months ago, due to his involvement with a certain Gun in a Nursery Incident. Apparently, when it came time to serve the wine, no servants materialized, and the gathering disbanded after no more than an hour. It was a terrible embarrassment. I tell you this, not to deal in idle gossip, but to offer you reassurance—or perhaps a warning.

You may find that your social calendars are emptier this Season. Rest assured, your friends (most likely) do not hate you. Machlish workers across the city are walking out on their duties, in protest of poor treatment—and to demand reparations for the Blight, at the urging of one Mistress HC. On the topic of Mistress HC, I must put an end to these ridiculous rumors that she and I are one and the same. Indeed, we share a cause, and I admire her for organizing so effectively. But have you heard her speak? The woman is painfully earnest—and I have never been earnest a day in my life. But I digress. A Certain Someone determinedly refuses to meet with her, even as his own servants quit in droves.

CS may not live up to his illustrious father’s reputation—one misses that bold confidence, if not that nasty temper—but it seems they share a certain distaste for our Machlish neighbors. Or perhaps he is too busy white-knuckling the leash of our very own Wayward Son, who has returned to us at last after four long years. It remains to be seen whether WS has improved his manners since last we saw him, but I for one have my doubts.

All I can be certain of is that discontent brews this Season, both among the Machlish and within the court. For his own sake and out of a belief in the inherent dignity of all mankind,I urge CS to comply with the demands of some of the most vulnerable in Avlish society. As you have seen—and will continue to feel—your pleasures depend on their labor and their magic.

Niamh set the paper down with uneasiness souring her stomach. Even after all these years, it seemed the Avlish would never tire of crushing her people underfoot. But could it be true that even Jack was mistreating his Machlish servants? So far, he’d been gracious to her, but perhaps she couldn’t trust herself. She’d always been too credulous—too inclined to see the best in people. Now, she wondered if the length of Erin’s letters was a reflection not of her excitement but her loneliness.

How could Niamh have failed to see it?

The Tattlerwas an unusual scandal sheet, indeed. To suggest the prince regent was a poor ruler and to support demands for reparations so openly… She certainly hoped Lovelace had taken precautions to ensure they were never exposed. Even in Caterlow, she’d heard what had happened in Jaille some thirty years ago. The commoners grew sick of the magical elite, and one day, they burned their royal family alive in the streets. Ever since then, every monarch on the continent had silenced dissenters with shocking swiftness.

And yet, this was the opinion of only one person—and likely not even one of Jack’s own subjects, at that. Lovelace had to be Machlish. Who among the Avlish would care enough to write in support of foreign commoners? “It seems someone as busy as the prince regent would have more pressing things to worry about than a columnist.”

“Yes, well, Jack has a nasty habit of making everything his business.” Judging by Sinclair’s sour expression, Niamh saw she’d pressed on an old wound. “Still, he’s been under a great deal of pressure. The court can grow quite irritated when their social engagements are impacted. And as Lovelace said, Jack doesn’t exactly have the reputation his father did.”

“He isn’t popular?”

“He’s not his father,” Sinclair replied. “In his prime, the king was a god among men. He commanded respect—or maybe just fear. He was also a true politician. Jack, meanwhile, cares more for governing his household than his kingdom.”

Niamh had noticed as much. He had both a wife and a housekeeper, who surely could run the palace without his oversight. Tentatively, she asked, “Is it customary for Avlish rulers to be so involved in the management of their staff?”

“Oh, no. Jack is a busybody in a class of his own. He trusts no one to do a single thing right.” He seemed quite delighted by the question but paused to collect himself. “In all seriousness, these days, most kings are figureheads with few actual political responsibilities—unless theywantto be involved, like Jack’s father was. The royal coffers fund the civil government, and the king commands the military. Apart from that, Parliament manages the finer details of running the kingdom.

“Our rulers have found ways to entertain themselves when they grow bored of statecraft.” Sinclair waved a hand. “The king had his art collection. Jack’s grandfather had a kennel full of the most beautiful greyhounds you’ve ever seen. And Jack… well, he has his social calendar. Planning the wedding has kept him quite busy.”

“Oh,” she said, dumbfounded.

“Indeed.” Sinclair raised his teacup to her. “Welcome to Avaland.”