Chapter VII – Accountability

June 8th, 1944

Strasbourg, France

A night in a POW camp is a lot like one in basic training, except with all of the dread and none of the anticipation. At least in basic you could look forward to the end. This was interminable. I had no idea how long they'd keep me here, if it would be months, or even years, but the thing I did know was that I'd be sitting out the war here and that was the worst thing about it. I would rather die in the mud with my men then lay around at the mercy of Germany's finest. This was about as painful a thing for a man as could be imagined. But it didn't stop there.

My head was in a goddamn cyclone, both from the blows and the pretty little bombshell Germany'd dropped on me. I'd put on a brave face and grit my teeth through the pain, but goddammit I was scared shitless.

Germany knew I was a state - there was no reason to mince words. Clearly he didn't know which one yet, but logically there weren't that many of us to choose from. How long would it be until he figured the rest of it out? And with Italy here now too… It wasn't looking good.

We used to be good friends, Italy and I. It seemed like a lifetime ago. But seeing him now, here – of all places – had almost made me slip. He hadn't changed one bit. Through it all, his good nature, his kindness, his unconditional goodwill had remained. On one level it was heartening to know that some things were unshakeable, but I had to wonder how sheltered he'd had to be to come away with all his kindness intact. War changed you. Turned you cold. It was just part of the job.

There was a collective gasp when I stumbled my way back to the barracks. The guards dumped me off, bleeding and discombobulated, in the middle of the place without a second glance. I had to pick my way through a throng of curious Frenchmen who hadn't a clue what to do, and practically crawl my way through camp. Now I was on my knees, wheezing and half-dead, in the doorway of our shabby building with my pride hanging by a thread.

One by one the POW's were drawn to all the noise I was making. Alarm was heady in the air, but once again it was France who became the ambassador for their collective concern. He appeared like a damn white knight, all righteousness and charm, with his ridiculous caped uniform billowing around his shoulders. I barely had the wherewithal to hate him for it.

"Mon Dieu, Romana. What have they done to you?" He reached out to touch the painful welt above my brow, but I would have none of it. I jerked my head back.

"Just give me a hand will you?"

"Romana-"

"Didn't I tell you not to call me that?" He ignored the statement, bending over to help me to my feet with one hand on my arm and the other on my waist. I focused on keeping my face stony and impassive despite the torturous crunching in my chest.

"New York, who did this to you?" He said once I eased myself into a prone position.

"Tall, blonde, real bad with the girls. Ring a bell?"

"The commandant?"

"No, France, not the commandant," I said, "Germany."

"I will kill him for this." His animosity struck me, for his words were fierce and violent and full of a passion that I'd not heard in a long time. I gave him a long, appraising look. In his gaze was the same romanticism I remembered from such long time ago, when things hadn't been so damn complicated. Unfortunately, it failed to move me as it might've once. All I could dredge up was rather a lukewarm ruefulness. I could break you. I thought.

"Don't be an idiot. There's no need for the both of us to get roughed up." It was his turn to regard me with disbelief when I laboriously wiped the blood from my face, "And quit looking at me like that. This is my job."

"Romana, what happened to you?"

"Bastard busted me up good, that's what happened." I said, only half listening. The rest of my attention was on finding the exact break in my nose. When I did, I placed my middle and index fingers on either side and pressed hard until I heard it pop back into place. The pain was blinding, "Goddamn."

"That is not what I mean." I exhaled quickly. Of course that's not what he meant.

"What do you want from me here France?" I turned to him exasperatedly. On any other day my patience would have held longer, but I was tired and in pain and I knew exactly where he was going with this line of questioning. The last thing it would elicit from me was goodwill. I didn't want to hear it.

"I want to know what happened to the girl I once knew!" Perhaps under some past illusion of affection, France crossed over from his bunk to mine and clasped my hands in his. His eyes searched me, imploring and falsely passionate, like a flower whose aroma had grown sickly with age. Very calmly, in the tone I reserved for the most insolent of recruits, I said:

"I outgrew her."

Slowly he let go of my hands and sat back a ways. I held steady. A small, forgotten part of me knew I should feel remorse or at the very least, reproach. But my heart was silent while the soldier who rested there, Randall Carter, kept it coldly in check. I looked at France, once a heartthrob of mine, and felt nothing.

"I… understand," No you don't, "Forgive me. I just thought that-

"That what? That it'd be just like the old days?" I glanced off a ways, "Those are long gone. We have bigger things to worry about now." The hurt in his eyes inclined me to rescind my statement, but my resolve stood fast. I would never go back to the old days, no sir'ee.

"I will bring you some water." He moved off, head down in confusion and most likely disappointment while I shrugged out of my field jacket as best I could without aggravating things too much. My crushed ribs would be good-as-new by morning, my face even sooner. I just had to hunker down for a while and rest - my body, that is. My mind stayed on overdrive all through the night.


May 15th, 1863

Schenectady, New York

"

Alfred, thank God." I murmured, dashing down the hill towards the procession of filthy, exhausted Union soldiers. My skirts dirtied immediately, but I did not care. I scanned back and forth, seeking out America's familiar form and gait from among the officers, all of whom looked as wretched as the men they led. America was not exempt. No longer was he the broad, healthy, bright-eyed young man I recalled. What I encountered instead was a fatigued, skinny youth who looked ready to collapse at the slightest gust of wind. Nevertheless, he lengthened his stride and embraced me heartily. A gesture which I returned, uncaring for the mud or the lice that he carried with him.

"It's good to see you, New York." He said it and meant it, and I could only nod, shutting my eyes against the anguish that rose up in me at the sight of him. When he let go of me, I turned to address the officers.

"Everything here is at your disposal. Please, make yourselves at home." They nodded, too tired to do anything else, and waved their men forward, up the hill, and towards the field where they would set up camp. I could only watch in growing horror as they passed by.

The majority of them could not have been any older than eighteen, but already, the harsh scrawl of war had been written all over them. I could see it in their gaunt, haunted faces; their shambling march; the slump of their shoulders beneath the heavy packs and rifles. It was even worse among the injured - there were disfigured faces and missing limbs, eyes blank with battlefield madness.

"My God…" America, to my left, made a noise of dark concurrence.

"This isn't even the half of it. We had to abandon several on the road to save supplies. They couldn't be helped," This, I think, he said more to himself than to me.

"Oh, Alfred. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Can't… help us now."

I knew something was wrong when he swayed unsteadily on his feet, nearly hitting me. I put my hands on his shoulders to steady him.

"Alfred? Are you alright?" He managed a single nod before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell into me like a bag of meal, "Help! Please, he needs help! Somebody!"

My shouting proved unnecessary. The three officers leading the contingent and an older man I knew to be a medic came running immediately, identical expressions of the utmost alarm coloring their gaunt features. The medic knelt at my side, his weathered, practiced hands going immediately to America's throat, seeking a pulse.

"What happened?" He demanded brusquely.

"I don't know! He just collapsed!"

"General Jones? Can you hear me?" The medic lightly slapped America's pale, hollow cheeks, "He's feverish. We have to get him indoors. I can see to him better there. Johnson, Reed, get over here!" Two stretcher bearers materialized next to us and had America up and secured in less than a minute. Sensing the necessity, I directed them hurriedly toward the manor, oblivious to the worried looks and questions from my staff.

"In here," I went to a guest room on the first floor and they entered without a second's hesitation. Momentarily, I found myself impressed by the efficiency with which they worked, so synchronized it was like looking at the working parts of a clock. The stretcher-bearers rolled America onto the bed, while the medic divested him of his weapons, jacket, and shirt, leaving him bare from the waist up. Violent shivers wracked his frame. I went to the other side of the bed, intent on helping with something – anything! - but what I saw made me freeze in my tracks.

"Good lord," I breathed. My wide eyes swept over his bony shoulders and jutting hipbones, his rib-cage, which seemed far too defined beneath a thin covering of sallow skin. His scars - some old and familiar, others new and unaccounted for - stood out in horrifying relief. One especially nasty one near his naval caught my attention, it looked like a puncture wound – perhaps from a bayonet. I brushed my fingers over his hand, just so I could feel as though I was contributing, and yanked my fingers back just as quickly.

"Hellfire, he's burning up. You've got to do something!"

"I will try my best," said the medic without looking up. He moved to unfasten America's trousers.

Then, a hand on my elbow. One of the officers.

"Miss, please, it would be best if you left now. Sergeant Stavish will take care of him," My eyes shifted warily between him and my country, reluctant to leave his side but wanting to obey orders. The officer must have seen my hesitation for he added quickly, "I will keep you informed. I swear it."

He didn't wait for my assent before directing me toward the door. Truth be told I didn't have it in me to fight him on the matter, but before he could shut me out for good I seized his hand.

"Please, do everything you can for him. He must live." The officer nodded, taken aback by the desperation in my tone.

"He will," said the man, and then shut the door in my face.

Not knowing what else to do I retreated to the parlor and poured myself a glass of port, drinking deeply, refilling, and drinking again. When the warmth from the alcohol burned away I sat in front of the hearth, looking at nothing. If there was anything I hated more than incompetence, it was helplessness. The feeling of total impotency in the face of dire circumstances was one of my greatest fears. It was all I could do not to wail and moan, beat on the walls and demand to be made aware of the state of things.

Contrary to his word, the officer did not come to me at all. Even as hours passed and day turned into night, I heard nothing. At some point I took to pacing furiously up and down the room, restless in my boredom. I refused supper that night, turning away any servant who did not have news of America's condition. After a while they just stopped coming all together, no doubt having arrived at the conclusion that I would be inconsolable until I heard from the medic. I didn't know if was worse or better that way. Without the constant interruption, my thoughts were perpetually hung up on America.

If indeed he had a fever, the medic would be attempting to break it right now. Cold water, I thought. They'd need cold water for that. Christ help me, I wanted to be in there… What if they did something wrong? What if it wasn't enough?

A terrifying thought occurred to me then.

What if America died? Was that even possible?

Yes, murmured a grave voice deep in me, it was very much a possibility. Alfred could die tonight, all because his states couldn't put aside their grievances long enough to see what it was doing to him. We were tearing him apart – the South with their secession and the North with our war. We who loved him most were killing him as we killed each other.

"Miss?" I whirled around, surprising the officer who had come at last to collect me.

"How is he?" I demanded.

"His fever has broken," I felt my body sag in relief, "He's sleeping now. Sergeant Stavish says you can see him in the morning."

"Thank God."

The officer looked over my wrinkled gown, my fly-away hair, and blood-shot gaze with a sympathetic eye. He placed a hand on my arm, meant as a gesture of comfort, "You ought to rest now too. General Jones is in good hands."

"I will. Thank you," I sought the insignia on his uniform denoting his rank, "Lieutenant…?"

"Campbell, miss," said he with a smile, "And you don't have to thank me."

"Even so. Goodnight, sir."


The next morning found me standing quietly outside Alfred's door as the medic gave him a morning check-up. According to the Lieutenant, he was still weak, but recovering quickly, and that was more than I could have asked for.

A moment more, and Stavish poked his head out the door, gesturing for me to enter. My eyes flew immediately to the bed as I did so, taking in America's thin, but freshly washed form. He offered a tired smile as I neared, sitting carefully beside him.

"How are you, Alfred?"

"Better than ever, Roma." Even though I knew his words to be untrue, it was heartening to see his cheerful personality make a return. I smiled back, but flicked my eyes toward the medic who remained steadfastly by the door, ready, no doubt, to forcibly eject me if my visit proved to be too trying. America followed my gaze and understood my intended meaning.

"Sergeant, clear out a minute, will you?" he said.

"Sir, I must insist-

"So must I," Alfred replied curtly, "It won't be for more than a few minutes. I promise not to up and die." Stavish nodded, and, with a parting scowl for me, excused himself, leaving us alone.

"America, what is going on out there?" I began immediately, "I've heard only bits and pieces. No one'll give me a straight answer!"

America took a long breath.

"It isn't looking good, New York. The Rebs are dug in and holding fast," he huffed a breath, as though he couldn't believe his own words, "It's hell out there."

"And the others? Will no one come to our aid?" A shake of his head.

"France and England are two shakes away from throwing in with the bastards. Most everyone else is fighting their own wars, or waiting to see who comes out on top like the goddamn opportunists they are." I let out a breath. Understanding.

"We cannot allow the South to have European aid - they'll crush us!"

"I know. Believe me, I know, but I can't get through to them. I haven't talked to Arthur since the Trent debacle, and France…" Alfred scoffed, "He's beyond me."

I looked down at my hands, unable to hold his gaze any longer. I'd known before our situation was dire, but having this kind of confirmation made it sting anew. America was correct – England had not spoken to either of us since Wilkes captured those Confederate messengers except to issue a few blistering missives about the illegality of search and seizure on the high seas, even though he had done the same thing to us in 1812. He would be a tough nut to crack. And forget about France. We had nothing to offer him in return for his help - no carrot and stick, as it were - and I knew Alfred would never condescend to beg for aid from Napoleon.

It was then, with Alfred's pleading eyes on me, begging for a solution - that one occurred to me. An insane, untenable, desperate option, but also a viable one, which Francis Bonnefoy would be hard-pressed to refuse.

"America," said I, "When is the next World Meeting?"

"Next month. Why?"

"If you take me as your second, there may be a chance I can sway France."

"You can?"

"I can try. You know how he is, he might be more… amenable," I cleared my throat, "to a woman." America frowned at me, and I almost winced in spite of myself as the ramifications of my proposal finally caught up with me. A lump formed in my throat.

"Are you saying that you would-

"I am saying that I will make him an offer he cannot refuse." Alfred looked at me for a moment that seemed to span centuries.

"I can't ask that of you, Romana," he replied at last.

"Yes, you can. If France sides with us it will be seen as a gesture of good faith. If he maintains his neutrality then we have one less enemy to worry about. Either way, the Rebs won't get him," I got up and went to the window, falling back on the coldly familiar veneer of a politician conducting business, "It'll be worth-while if I can get an agreement out of it." Alfred blinked, considering.

"If you think it will work then I won't stop you. I can't say what the rest of the world will think of you offering France sexual favors."

I nodded. At the very least, I was thankful for his honesty on the matter.

"Better me than the Union." I said.


June 21st, 1863

Albany, New York

Good God what am I walking into?

The rogue, defeatist thought repeated itself ever more vigorously as we took our positions around the massive, oblong table in the centermost room of the Albany embassy. This building, though significantly smaller and less opulent than our D.C. branch, was a feat of architectural prowess, and its familiarity helped ease the sense of discontent in my belly. I focused on the white marble interior, designed in the Greco-Roman manner with Doric columns, intricate, carved facades, and a long, flat ceiling. The Albany embassy, known to us as the Old Independence Building, had been erected shortly following the Washington administration as a political statement, both on the national and international level. It spit in the eye of England who, until America declared independence, had never allowed a World meeting to take place within the colonies. America had always interpreted it as an oppressive measure, but in reality I suspected it had more to do with the sheer unfeasibility of journeying across the Atlantic Ocean on a biannual basis. That being said, we did not often host World Meetings, and if we did we almost always held them in D.C. unless there was a crisis preventing us from doing so, such as a civil war.

Or English soldiers burning down our capital.

Either way, I possessed a certain attachment to the Old Independence. Not simply because it was in my state, but because it had housed the first official meeting of the Union in 1798. The states were a rowdy lot, especially the newer additions, like Kentucky and Nebraska, and most of the time our meetings looked less like structured, official political discussion and more like liquor-soaked bar brawls. The painting in the threshold depicting that first meeting proved at least that much.

It was fortunate that the Old Thirteen at least had some experience with democratic governance, otherwise we might never get anything done.

All that aside, I couldn't remember ever having dressed so extravagantly for a meeting in the Independence. I'd chosen muted blue and white for the occasion, nothing too ostentatious, but the sheer volume of my skirts was enough to make any Southern Belle swoon with envy. I could not imagine how many yards of satin and lace had gone into its creation. What also struck me was the amount of time I spent before my vanity mirror, attempting to steady my throbbing heart and frayed nerves. Usually, I was an expert in allaying my own fears, but today the icy, rational calm refused to surface, no matter how desperate my summons.

When at last I did finally conjure enough courage to leave familiar territory and enter the Independence, a number of countries had already arrived. I stayed by America's side, silent except to exchange greetings, all the while keeping a sharp look out for France. A few of the foreigners analyzed me curiously, though not in a disapproving manner. It was curiosity that turned their heads. Usually, if America needed a second pair of hands, it was D.C. who assumed the role. Everybody liked D.C. whereas I was something of an acquired taste.

"Are you sure about this, Romana?" America whispered discreetly.

"Yes, I am."

"Alright then," His eyes narrowed as he scanned the crowd. I looked too, discomforted by the notion of what was to come, and settled my gaze on two men entering the room. It was the Beilschmidts, one in burgundy and one in blue. I nearly waved on account of our past dealings, but a nudge from America stayed my hand. The message was clear: they had not come to our aid and did not deserve our courtesy.

It was half-passed eleven. Thirty minutes before we were due to begin. I acknowledged the probability of an under-represented meeting today and felt my stomach do another turn. What was I to say? I'd never deliberately enticed someone before in my life, not to mention that I would be under the careful scrutiny of almost every other country in the room. In order to do this I had to achieve not only effectiveness, but discretion. It seemed impossible. I would likely muck it up, and then where would we be?

"God give me strength."

"For what, may I ask?" I turned abruptly and found myself face-to-face with the very country whose arrival I had dreaded and anticipated.

France stood out like a beacon against the neutral interior colors. He resembled a bluebird, dressed in cerulean and cream as he was. A striking combination, but outmatched by the blue in his eyes which were so vivid they could put any man-made dye to shame.

My heart thumped hard enough that I could feel it in my stomach. I sank into a low curtsey.

"Pardon me, sir. I did not see you." He laughed freely before taking my hand and bringing it to his mouth to kiss.

"Water under the bridge, I assure you. But you did not answer my question: for what might a lovely mademoiselle such as you need strength, hmm?"

"Oh, I'm afraid I was simply being dramatic. It is nothing more than a trifle really." I waved my hand dismissively, trying to off-set the rapidity of my words.

"Even so, I consider it my duty to bring woe to that which dares trouble a lady." Perhaps it was the absurdity of the situation or just my frazzled mind, but I found myself laughing at his good-natured hyperbole. He did so in return and an easy camaraderie settled over us. Whether it be by natural cohesiveness or his innate ability with women I did not particularly care, so long as the fruit of our conversation was plentiful.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the elder Beilschmidt watching our exchange with raised eyebrow. A summer heat rose under my collar when our eyes met. I looked away, humiliated upon sensing his confusion and disapproval. The man's hawkish gaze flickered away towards America who chatted amicably with Canada and then back at me. Momentarily, I faltered in my speech, right in the middle of a saucy remark, and it showed. France cocked his head quizzically.

I almost half expected Prussia to come stalking over and ruin everything. I prayed to God he wouldn't. I didn't think I had the ability to uphold the façade then. My throat closed when he took a step forward, face full of unwarranted concern. But my fallacy was spared when Spain intercepted him. I exhaled in relief, glancing at America. Very clearly and purposefully, he inclined a brow, asking silently if I required assistance, before flicking his eyes at France, who had no idea all that was taking place behind him.

I shook my head no. This was my battle to fight alone.

"Are you alright?" France asked when my distraction became obvious. I smiled as brightly as I could muster.

"Yes, yes of course. I was just thinking," Quickly, I launched into my pre-determined drivel, "How long has it been since you last visited Albany?"

"Unfortunately, business has rarely taken me to America. I am afraid this is the first time in fifty years." I took a breath, preparing for a bold move, and went for the kill.

"Perhaps it is time to reacquaint yourself." France appeared momentarily surprised when I inclined my head suggestively, but his consternation was soon replaced with a co-conspiratorial mischief. One didn't have to be an experienced flirt to gain a pique France's interest; however, my time with the English aristocracy had taught me a few key items when it came to the wooing the opposite sex. Namely, that body language ultimately won the day. I had him - hook, line, and sinker.

"I could not agree more." His eyes glittered dark blue in the afternoon light, full to the brim with lascivious intent. Part of me, perhaps the one that was not steeped in ethical remiss, champed at the bit in protest, but I shoved any thoughts of backing out to the farthest reaches of my mind. I could do this. Even if it meant giving up that which I could never get back; it was for a cause bigger than mortal reservation.

The clock chimed high-noon as we assembled at the great table - America to my right and France very close to my left. On America's other side sat Canada, looking timid and flighty as usual. There were perhaps twenty-five nations present, a noticeably smaller number than usual; however, I had to attribute that to the location.

America rose, took a breath, and, with uncharacteristic bite, launched right into the topic of the day – our war. As usual, it took less than five minutes for everyone to descend into a Herculean argument. I sat back in my chair, head in hand, when someone, presumably Romano, leapt atop the table in order to better shout at Germany across the room. The man in question stood abruptly, a savage look in his eye, and returned with a blistering remark. It was madness.

"Not feeling up to the action today?" I said when I noticed France still in his seat, fingers tented and a contented, relaxed expression on his face. He smiled without taking his eyes off the proceedings.

"I am always up for action," His charming smile turned solicitous, "Though not this kind perhaps." My jaw clenched shut when I felt him squeeze my leg under the table.

"Indeed," was all I could say.


We made our escape shortly after the World Meeting was convened. No one noticed – they were still too wrapped up in their violent discourse to pay any attention to a state and a country slipping out the side door. Though when we were far enough away from the din, the reality of what I'd done and would be expected to do hit me full on and the terrible sinking feeling clutched my stomach. I had to stop momentarily in order to collect myself.

"Romana?" France, noticing my falling behind, retraced his steps to where I stood, leaning against the wall, "Are you alright?"

"No need to worry for me, I'm perfectly fine." I forced a smile and took the arm that he offered gladly, "In any case, we can take my carriage if you like. I'd rather prefer to go back to Schenectady if you don't mind."

"Not at all," France said courteously, "Your estate is quite impressive."

"Wonderful, then I suppose I can regale to you stories of Albany on the way there."

The distance between Albany and Schenectady was relatively short, approximately twenty miles, and my horses were fleet. We made the journey in two, perhaps three, hours.

Schenectady, like Albany, was an industrial center. Not quite as modern or as expansive as the capital but just as productive. It was even once regarded as the 'Rail hub of America' for the incredible amount of shipments that came through from the Great Lakes.

To my surprise, France seemed genuinely interested in my economic prattle, posing questions when appropriate and even advice on occasion, though it was hardly necessary. My state's economy was lucrative, even in light of the war. Despite everything, a part of me housed a persistent feeling of inadequacy. How provincial and low-brow must all this appear to a European power? He must be itching to get on with it.

Regardless of the pleasantness of our conversation I knew the only thing it accomplished was to prolong the inevitable. Sooner or later we had to address the elephant in the room, and I most certainly was not looking forward to it. Every second I dallied the restlessness in me became all the more acute. I set my glass down on the table with an audible clink. France eyed at me curiously.

"Sir, before anything else is said, I am afraid there are things we must discuss." His mouth curved in a soft smile.

"Such as the real reason you are choosing to put yourself in a compromising position?"

"How did you guess?"

"You are not difficult to read. Besides," A playful spark bloomed in his eyes, "Any other woman would have hit me with a cast-iron skillet by now." I couldn't resist a self-satisfied grin; it didn't take a genius to know he was referring to Hungary. I'd witnessed her repudiation of many a man in the past; it was rather like watching a territorial mother moose.

"A fair point," I looked him unabashedly in the eyes, "I am not a person who gives something for nothing, and I know you are not either."

"That is true, I am not. What are your terms?"

"What I want is you word that you will never offer assistance to, nor fight under the Confederate banner against the Union," His eyebrows rose in surprise, but I was not finished, "If you agree then I suppose you can guess what I am prepared to offer in return."

"You would go to such lengths?"

"I would. For the sake of the Union."

"That cannot possibly be all. I know you Romana, you have too much pride to simply auction yourself out, even if it is in the name of God and country."

"My reasons are my own," I said shortly, "Nonetheless, the offer stands. You may take it or leave it." France regarded me for a long moment. Meanwhile, I tamped down the ugly feeling in my stomach and swallowed so as not to show my latent self-consciousness. I couldn't help but be embarrassed at my ribald proposition, but fortunately the callousness of doing business undercut the ethical backlash. It became more palatable if it were simply another contract.

"How can I possibly refuse that?" I'll admit, I was taken aback.

"What?"

France grinned wickedly, "You are a beautiful woman, Romana. Any man would be a fool to refuse you terms," He extended a hand to seal the deal, "You have my word, I will uphold my end of the bargain, provided you uphold yours."

I swallowed, my gaze shifting between him and his proffered hand, long-fingered and un-callused. After a moment, I took it.

"I will."

At that, he stood, our hands still linked, and pulled me into his embrace and away from the safety of propriety, of structure, of certainty. France took what I offered without reservation in his sweet, embellished manner. As the clock heralded the late hour, I could not help but mourn all that which I was losing in the gathering dark and opulent upholstery of my lonely, country estate.

Briefly, I acknowledged that this was the very room in which I'd drank and paced, praying for America to pull through the night. At that moment, all those weeks ago, I'd made a decision to do everything in my power to ensure I would never face such aching uncertainty again.

The deal to end all deals; I would ensure France's cooperation with the Union until the end of time.


June 10th, 1944

Washington D.C.

Louis Lawrence Wesley Jones, known to just about everyone as a suave, competent, put-together sort, sat sweating and mortified at his desk, furiously smoking a cigarette and reading, for perhaps the fiftieth time over, the telegram that had arrived early this morning from the front.

Missing in action.

The words stuck out as if they were written in neon light.

"New York… What the hell have you done?" He raked his fingers roughly through his already disheveled hair.

He'd hoped - prayed – that this day would never come. But now it had. And he had no clue what to do. The letter, written personally by America himself, was horrendously vague and unhelpful, and made even worse by the terrible thought of what if?

Did America know who she was? Louis had no idea she'd been working this closely with Alfred, and New York never contacted him personally, hence any number of situations could have befallen her. Hell, she may have even been arrested by their own side for impersonating an officer or something of the like! But that was absurd, he reminded himself, they wouldn't have bothered sending such a namby-pamby letter if that were the case; they would've sent a court order.

Louis swallowed. It was just like dealing with an accident on the job: the first action was always to go in personally and take care of business. There was nothing else for it.

"O'Grady! Get in here!" His red-faced assistant was before him at once.

"Yes, Mr. Jones?"

"Get me on the next ship to London. Yes, you heard me. London. Right now!"

"But sir, Congress is in session all week."

"Do I look like I give a damn?" O'Grady flinched at the use of a profanity. Louis was nearly always perfectly professional, "Just patch me through to Rayburn, something's come up."

"Right away, Mr. Jones." Louis failed to acknowledge the man as he rushed out the door. He was much more concerned with getting his affairs in order. He had no idea how long he might be gone. The country would have to run itself for a time. There could be no distractions on this journey, especially those in the form of his own government. New York was in dire straits and Louis was the only man in the world who could help her. He just hoped it wasn't too late to sort this mess out.