I wanted to thank you guys for bearing with me, it has been crazy around here lately and writing has been somewhat difficult. The "Battle of York" "ABY" will be a lynchpin of this story, there is no going back and the effects of this action will be indelible. The war in America's had the whole world watching, it was the first time a colony had risen up in open warfare against is sovereign masters. We'll start diving into how this is affecting the geopolitical landscape of 18th century Europe.
(3 weeks ABY, 1778, Winter)
Astrid watched with growing mirth as he tried and failed to knot his tie. It seemed almost incongruous for this man, so trained by order and routine, to have trouble knotting a simple tie. If she was being honest, she lived for moments like these. She was still "asleep" after the events other, physical exertions. Her body ached in pleasurable sort of way, sore but satisfied after the workout it had been subjected to. So lie there she did, not moving, not wanting him to know she was awake. Every time she slept over, and every time he had to leave early, he would kiss her forehead ever so gently. He never woke her, not wanting to disturb her sleep. What she didn't want him to know was that she had been awake each and every time. She avoided telling him because she didn't want him to stop. But this morning wasn't like the others, Henry had been called in to answer for his failings. General Clinton was most angered by this horrendous attack apparently. With acting skills like that, its a wonder he isn't in the theater. This catastrophic failure would ultimately land on his desk and it was said he was in a dark mood. It took all of her discipline not to snort at the thought. The general wasn't the slightest bit concerned with the deaths of hundreds of the subjects he was supposed to protect, he wasn't even really bothered that they had died at all, he was simply consternated that they had died, on his watch. With the war going as badly as it was, a blow like this could result in…reshuffling at the top.
She looked out the corner of her eye and paid more attention to him now, her words echoing in the back of her mind. Reshuffling at the top…could Henry be so nervous because he thinks his name will be next to the General's on the "to be hanged" list? The thought filled her with dread, wrapping itself around her spine and squeezing with gradual pressure. Sending a tendril of cold and fear into her every being. Stop. It. She bit the words out, her anger burning away her fear. You're acting like a bloody child. She rolled over at sat up, cross-legged, her scowl still etched into her face. Henry's eyes focused on her through the mirror and he gave a small chuckle at seeing her expression.
"You look worse than I do, and I'm the one who's hide might get plastered above the fireplace in Whitehall."
She rolled her eyes. "That's not even close to being humorous."
He nodded solemnly and continued working on his tie, brow furrowed. She reached over and put on his nightshirt and went to stand behind him, resting her head on his back. She could feel him breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest had always been soothing to her. Its stability and continuity appealed to her in a way hard to express with words. Now, the breathing was slightly erratic. She clenched her fingers around his waist as the waves of guilt came again. She had been wrestling with the turbulent emotions, hiding it from everyone around her. It was like a constant companion that she couldn't shake, try as she might. She woke up and there it was, she met with her handler and there it was. The only time it faded was when she spent time with Henry, but that was a double-sided pence. She watched the stress of the preceding weeks take its toll, heard him pacing all hours of the night as he tried to repair and maintain order in this fractured city. And for her part, Astrid was deeply ashamed of her role in it. She saw the effect in the faces of people as she walked down the street, saw their empty, passive faces. Still in shock, dumbfounded by the carnage that had been inflicted on them. Nothing like this had happened on such a scale before. The series of explosions had reduced several blocks of the city to rubble and collapsed houses. The bombs themselves weren't all that powerful, but the engineers had been meticulous in their placement. They had used the intel packet she'd sent them to place the bombs along structural weak points, causing much damage and knocking down adjacent houses in the process. What no one had fully accounted for was the fires. New York was a harbor city with lots of wood lying around, lots of pitch lying around as well. All the pitch had needed was a strong wind to carry smoking debris and floating sparks to ignite. And ignite it had, causing a massive fireball and fire intensity not seen since the days of Nebuchadnezzar. It had taken four days for the flames to fully extinguish. A fourth of the city was now black, charred smoking remains, and she saw how heavily this weighed on Henry's shoulders, how it weighed on those under his command.
The Times had posted that this attack was a critical turning point in the war. Astrid couldn't help but wonder about her place in it. The more she thought about it, the more she pondered over her own politics, she found her future murky, no longer clear like it once was. Henry turned around and wrapped her in a hug, resting his cheek on the crown of her head, she, in turn, wrapped her arms tightly around him and pulled him close, wanting him to feel how much he meant to her. Knowing that her words could never do it justice.
00000
The bookshop was in the Burlington Arcade, the recently constructed amalgamation of shops in what was becoming the more fashionable part of Piccadilly. It was sandwiched between one of London's custom tailors, this one catered mainly to the upper class who used the arcade as a way to keep abreast of modern fashions, and a jeweler. It had the sort of smell that draws bibliophiles as surely as the scent of nectar draws a bee. The musty, dusty odor of dried out paper and leather binding. The shop's owner was contrastingly young, dressed in a suit whose shoulders were sprinkled with dust. He started every day by running a cloth over the shelves, and the books were ever exuding new quantities of it. It had become such a routine part of his day that he had even grown to like it. The store had an ambiance that he dearly loved, the store did a small but lucrative volume of business depending less on commoners than a discreet number of regular customers from the upper reaches of London society.
The owner, a Mr. Niles Matten, traveled a great deal. Often boarding a ship or carriage at short notice to participate in an auction of some deceased gentleman's library. A battered ledger book listed sales going as far back as the 1740s, in which were listed hundreds of sales and the shop's book catalogue was made of simple filing cards in small wooden boxes. One set listing books by title and another by author. All writing was done with an expensive quill pen. The store's stationery bore the "by appointment to" crests of four royal family members. The arcade was no more than a thirty-minute uphill walk to Buckingham Palace. The wooden door had a fifty-year-old bell hanging off the top of the frame, it rang.
"Good morning Mr. Matten."
"And to you sir," Niles answered one of his regulars as he stood.
He had an accent so neutral his customers had him pegged for a native of three different regions.
"I have the first edition Defoe, the one you wrote about earlier this week. Just came in yesterday."
"Is this the one from that collection in Cork you spoke about?"
"No sir, I believe its originally from the estate of Sir John Claggett, near Cottom Prior. I found it at Holsteads in Cambridge."
"A first edition?"
"Most certainly sir."
The book dealer did not react noticeably. The code phrase was both constant and changing. Matten made frequent trips to Ireland to purchase books from the estates of deceased collectors or from dealers in the country. When the customer mentioned any country in Great Britain he indicated the destination of the information. When he questioned the edition of the book, he also indicated its importance. Matten pulled the book off the shelf and laid it on his desk. The customer opened it with care, running his finger down the title page.
"In an age of moth-eaten and poor workmanship." He said with appreciation.
"Indeed." Matten nodded. Both men's love for the art of bookbinding was genuine, any good cover becomes more real than its builders expect.
"The leather is in remarkable condition." His visitor grunted agreement. "I must have it. How much?"
The dealer didn't answer, instead, Matten removed a card from one of the wooden boxes under his desk and handed to his customer. He gave the card only a cursory look. "Done." The customer sat down on the store's only other chair and opened his satchel.
"I have another job for you. This is an early copy of The Vicar of Wakefield, I found it last month in a shop up at Cornwall."
He handed the book over. Matten needed only a single look at its condition. "Scandalous."
"Can your chap restore it?"
"I don't know." The leather was cracked, some of the pages had been folded and the binding was frayed almost to nothing.
"I'm afraid the attic in which they found it had a leaky roof." The customer said casually.
"Oh?" Is the information that important? Matten looked up. "A tragic waste."
"How else can you explain it?" The man shrugged.
"I'll see what I can do. He's not a miracle worker you know." Is it that important?
"I understand, still, the best you can arrange." Yes, it's that important.
"Of course sir." Matten opened his desk drawer and withdrew the cash box. The customer removed his wallet from his satchel and counted out the fifty-pound notes. Matten checked the amount then placed the book in a stout cardboard box that he tied with string. Seller and buyer shook hands, the transfer was complete. The customer walked south towards Piccadilly, then turned right heading west towards green park and downhill to the palace.
Matten took the envelope that had been hidden in the book and tucked it away in a drawer. He finished making his ledger entry that noted that he would need to speak to the travel registrar about securing passage to Cork where he would meet a fellow dealer in rare books and have lunch at the Old Bridge Restaurant before catching a ship home. It never occurred to him to open the envelope, that was not his job. The less he knew the less was vulnerable if he were to be caught. Matten had been trained by professionals and the first ruled pounded into his head had been "need to know." He ran the intelligence operation and he needed to know how to do that, he didn't always need to know what specific information he gathered.