Henry looked out at the carriage window and thought hard. He had always been a meticulous planner, but he had never poured more thought into anything than he was right now. He took a deep breath and started all over again. December was fast approaching, soon it would be 1779, and this damned war would be entering its fourth year. The fourth-year with no significant progress. The King and parliament were astounded that not only had victory not been achieved, but the war had expanded its fronts. The French, the Spanish, and God knows who else at this point have started hostilities by raiding British supply ships, ports, naval bases, and ammo deposits. Things could not continue to go on as they have been for much longer. The public wasn't to know this, but the treasury was very near depletion. It was laughable; actually, the whole war started because the colonies refused to compensate Great Britain for the expenses that occurred defending them from French aggression. Selfish and ungrateful, the entire lot of them.

"Darling, I can hear your thoughts again."

Her voice cut through his thoughts with surprising gentleness. He looked down at her, her hand in his. She was gently stroking the area between this thumb and index finger. Her eyes, a brilliant green, were intently fixed on him, and he could see the worry there. He smiled a weary smile at her and gripped her hand tightly.

"Sorry. I don't mean to worry you. Just a lot of thinking going on right now."

"You? Thinking? I would have never assumed."

He smiled at her again, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He freed his hand and began gently stroking her hair. Astrid never wore hats; it was something he found intriguing. Well, correction, she only wore hats on assignments, but when she was dressing for social occasions, no hats, ever. He liked it, and he told her frequently. Her hair was a beautiful sun-kissed blonde, and she often wore it in a tight braid that hung down her back. It was mesmerizing, to him at least; he loved to worm his fingers through the knots, just above the base of her neck. He would massage that spot gently, listening to her purr in appreciation, or when she was asleep, he would do the same thing and smile as she snuggled closer to him.

He found it soothing, and it helped stabilize his thoughts and purpose into something tangible. He had to succeed, for if he didn't, he would lose her. That was what kept him up at night. For a while, he had fought the war out of patriotism. The Colonies had risen in an unholy and unlawful insurrection against his Majesty's reign. As one of his officers, it was his duty to bring them to heel and eventually back into the fold. As loyal subjects of the crown. Once he had been stationed here for a few months, that vague sense of propriety had slowly turned into something else. As he observed the lives of the people he saw around him, he felt an urge to protect them from the traitors' aggression. He remembered how he had felt at seeing loyalists brutalized at the hands of angry mobs, their houses burnt, themselves beaten, tarred, and then feathered. He then felt it was his job to make sure that they didn't suffer, for if they lost the war, what would become of them?

Now, now things had changed yet again. A memory of lazy mornings where he looked down at the creature that lay in his arms slipped into his thoughts. He thought about the tussle of Astrid's golden blonde hair, the dusting of freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks, and the rhythmic rise and fall of her stable, deep breathing. He thought about how often he gently traced the small of her back with the fingers of his right hand, and with his left, wormed his fingers through her hair so he could scratch the base of her neck—smiling as she buried her face deeper into his chest in response. One thought, above all else, always came to him at that moment. If he could, he would stay like this forever, the warmth emanating from her thawing layers of ice coating his heart since his mother's death. The grip of the ice dragon was now choking that feeling of happiness around his heart. It snaked its way around his spine and buried its self in the base of his skull. He could feel it throbbing, reminding him of his failings, of how he would never succeed, of how he would lose her. All things die. Even stars burnout.

It terrified him in a way that nothing else did, and he spent most of his waking hours racking his brain on what he could do to make sure this future never came to pass. And now, he found a military solution that presented domestic problems for him. He sighed to himself and thought about the irony of the situation. Peggy Shippen. A Philadelphia-born socialite, daughter of a local elite. He took another silent deep breath and ran through what he knew about her as if it was an intel packet. Margaret Shippen was born July 11, 1760, in Philadelphia, the fourth and youngest daughter of Edward Shippen IV and Margaret Francis, the daughter of Tench Francis, Sr; she was nicknamed "Peggy." She was born into a prominent Philadelphia family, which included two Philadelphia mayors and the founder of Shippensburg, Pennsylvania. Edward Shippen was a judge and member of the Provincial Council of Pennsylvania. The Shippen family was politically divided, and the judge was considered either a "Neutralist" or a covert "Tory " with allegiance to the British crown. Two younger boys died in infancy, and Peggy grew up as the baby of the family and was the "family's darling."

He had met her when Philadelphia had been under British occupation, but with the withdrawal and subsequent conquering by the "United States," he had been forced to leave. Before the departure, however, they had been 'acquainted' with one another. Henry groaned internally at that and hoped she and Astrid never met. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to foster a romantic connection with her, as it gave him an in into the inner workings of local politics. And it had worked, beautifully, the intelligence she had provided him was a goldmine. It allowed his people to quietly round-up and disappear several traitors and other troublesome actors. This, however, was small potatoes compared to what her most recent letter had revealed to him. Rumors had been circulating about Benedict Arnold's command of the city and certain improprieties as it were. Some of which hinted at a relationship with the Shippen household. Some weeks back, she had written him that the rumors had merit; she and Arnold were, in fact, in an illicit relationship. She assured him, however, that while Arnold enjoyed her body, her heart would always be with him.

Which was a problem for Henry because how was he supposed to handle an asset that believed he was in love with her when he wasn't. He hadn't ever loved her, despite what he had said during candlelit evenings. He certainly didn't fancy telling Astrid about that part of the operation either. However complicated that was, to begin with, it got worse. In her most recent letter, which had been delivered just this past week, she had indicated that Benedict Arnold was open to communication regarding possibly defecting to the British. If this could be successfully arranged, it would be one for the history books. A successful subversion of such a high-ranking general of the Continental Army would strike a blow the rebels surely couldn't recover from and possibly serve to deter other nations from joining in on the side of the Colonies. His superiors were already ordering him to proceed with all due haste, and he couldn't exactly tell them the reason he was dragging his feet is that he dreaded telling the woman he loved what truly went on with Miss Peggy Shippen.

A scowl etched itself onto his face out of sheer frustration. To complete the mission, he would have to resume the cover he had when he started, the cover of Peggy Shippen's lover. He sighed again, this time out loud. Astrid's head came up, a question in her eyes. He shook his head and motioned that he was going crazy. She smiled at him, kissed his cheek, and then lowered her head back down. As soon as she stopped looking at him, he winced and groaned, silently this time. What on earth was he going to do?

00000

Benedict Arnold sat rigidly in his chair and used every ounce of his discipline not to break out into cold sweats. The camp was as silent as a tomb. He winced. Really, a tomb? Was the best illustration he could come up with? Regardless, the camp was on a silent watch protocol. No one outside their tents unless they were discharging their duties. After he and the rest of the commanding officers had puzzled out there was a spy in their midst, Washington had ordered the camp shut down. Any and all activity not vital to the security or logistics of the camp was to be suspended. Violation of this order would result in summary execution. Clever George. Arnold admitted to himself that George had always been clever. The strategy was one used by the Byzantine Empire to root out spies in their camps.

Arnold sighed and rubbed his face; the stress of the situation was beginning to render him insane. He felt an overwhelming urge to start laughing hysterically. Here Washington was going to all this trouble, locking the camp down, threatening to tear at the unity of the army, all in the all-hands attempt to root out a spy he had just had dinner with. He ordered soldiers to stay in place, upon pain of death, but the officers were free to move about. The spy was free to move about. He felt giggles starting to rack his body, and he could hear its muffled sound escaping through his clenched lips. The harder he tried to suppress the noise, the more difficult it became. Which in turn only served to make him laugh that much harder. Intellectually he knew he must be having some sort of fit of panic, some sort of anxiety attack, perhaps even a demon. A demon, why not? Why shouldn't Beelzebub have some fun with him as well? He was still choking on his hysteria when he heard someone approaching his tent.

"General Arnold sir? It's Major Tallmadge. Permission to enter?"