Three:
The Keep

It took far longer than she cared to admit for Victoria to dress and begin the descent to the docks. Jericho had wanted to come along, but had failed to bring any additional clothing with her the previous night. (Though Victoria wasn't completely uncertain that Jericho wouldn't follow along behind them, using the rooftops and back alleys for cover.) Reaver had also stated his desire to join her, though he had neglected to give any reasoning beyond that it was in his best interests to keep an eye on any events that might impact his business within Industrial. She was fairly certain that was utter bollocks, but she wasn't about to call him on it. She didn't have the energy. She easily would have preferred Walter as a companion, but it was safer to leave the castle in his hands than unoccupied. At the very least, if there was a threat, she could count on Reaver to shoot it before it had a chance to do the same to him.

The carriage rattled along and they both took great pains not to look at each other. Instead, they both endeavoured to stare out the windows, pretending everything was fine and this was completely normal. Victoria watched as Bowerstone rattled by—crooked old houses silhouetted against a sky like a bone porcelain bowl. Conversation was stilted and clipped to the point of near nonexistence. All the progress they had made during their engagement had been reversed a year ago, leaving them with long, awkward silences and a lingering sense of the other not wanting to be there. In Victoria's opinion, it made the air between them feel just short of hostile. She didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to see him, but was inclined to tolerate him if it meant he would be leaving soon.

"I should have my forms to you within the next two weeks…along with a new proposal," Reaver informed her almost contemplatively.

"There's no rush," Victoria replied, sparing a brief glance in his general direction. She wondered if he shared her sentiments of feigning tolerance, but couldn't be certain. He still wasn't looking at her, and what she could see of his expression was unreadable. "There's still three months to go."

He answered with a soft, noncommittal hum and they both fell silent once more.

Victoria observed as the Market's tidy houses and shops fell away to be replaced by towering factories and run-down terraced houses. Her stomach clenched uncomfortably. No matter how much effort she put into rebuilding Industrial, it never seemed to get any better. Reaver never gave any indication he cared. He would, though, when her new bill was put into effect this summer. Mandatory safety procedures, raised minimum wages, and age restrictions to keep children out of work environments. They were all things she'd worked on fixing before, but no one had really taken it seriously. She was hoping that, with harsher penalties and the threat of jail time in place, they would start. Irregardless, when she revealed the bill, she was going to have a lot of angry businessmen on her hands. She welcomed the challenge.

The docks spread out before them, laden with crates and barrels but empty of workers despite it barely being midday. Instead, soldiers paced their length, standing out against the dreary background of Industrial like splotches of scarlet paint. Victoria eyed them carefully until she spotted a familiar figure standing near the road's edge.

She cracked the door open and, peeking out, called up to the driver: "Pull up alongside Captain Finn, if you please."

"Yes, Ma'am!" was the reply and the carriage immediately began to slow.

They rolled to a halt and Reaver had both opened the door and slid gracefully out of the carriage before Victoria could even contemplate movement. Typical, she thought with a frown. But she reluctantly accepted his offered hand and allowed him to help her down without any external fuss. There was a strong breeze today, rustling the tails of her military-styled crimson coat. The scent of brine and waste hit her olfactory sense like a punch and she worked to keep her expression from shifting into one of disgust. Her stomach churned in imitation of the filthy, brackish waves lapping at the piers' struts and Victoria suddenly wished the waste treatment facility was already completed.

"Oh, look," Ben remarked as they drew close, "one of my favourite people and one of my least favourite people all in the same carriage. Must be my lucky day."

"Must be," Victoria retorted, teasing; ignoring the rules of decorum that said public displays of affection were improper, Victoria drew him into a hug. Something about Ben always seemed comforting—whether it was his persistent humour or the kindness of his actions, she didn't know. But she always looked forward to seeing him. Reluctantly pulling away, she enquired, "What's going on?"

"Honest-like? I don't really know," Ben admitted. "Decided to drop in for supplies—pay Walter, you, and Page a visit while I'm here. I was—uh, I was actually on my way to see Page when I saw Sergeant there—" he nodded toward a soldier— "directing people off the docks. Luckily, some of the lads recognized me and filled me in. Told 'em they oughtta've contacted you sooner." He held up a pair of battered binoculars to her. "I'm, uh, a bit perplexed here."

Victoria accepted the binoculars and peered through them. A massive steam-powered ship met her gaze—enormous crank slowly rotating as soft plumes of smoke drifted lazily from its funnel. Something seemed off about the number of sails, but she couldn't say what.

"It's…very modern," she observed with a frown. What was there really to say? She didn't know ships from Skorm. How was she supposed to help? "Modern, but unremarkable."

"It was coming in full speed," Ben added, nodding in agreement. He went to take the binoculars from her, but Reaver snatched them up before Ben could lay a finger on them. Shooting the taller man a disapproving look, he went on: "An' it wasn't responding to anything the lads in the dinghies called to it. I'd almost think it was abandoned if it hadn't started slowing just before you got here…it's not flying any colours, either."

"That raises some questions, to be honest."

"Well, well, a steam engine and full rigging," Reaver remarked, more to himself than them.

Victoria suddenly realised just why the sails had looked odd to her. Recently, they'd started incorporating steam engines into more ships and, in turn, had been reducing the number of sails required per ship. The goal, she'd been told, was to eventually have ships that were powerful enough to transport goods and passengers a long distance without the need for sails at all. This ship reminded her of a very old concept for the current models, though she'd never seen it put into practice before.

Ben was talking again, however, and his voice drew her out of her introspection. "That's what one of the chaps over there said. Someone really wanted to make sure that ship got where it was needed." Ben paused and, almost as an afterthought, added, "Suppose that means we don't need to worry about pirates. I can't imagine one spending so much on fuel."

Victoria snuck an accusatory glance at Reaver. Funnily enough, she could imagine a pirate that would. If she didn't know what Arachne, his current vessel, looked like she might have even considered him to be the reason behind this mystery ship. As it was, it didn't seem likely.

"We don't need to guess where it came from, either," Reaver replied, roughly returning Ben's binoculars. "My company built it."

"Wait, what?" Ben received no answer as Reaver stalked off to speak with the Sergeant. He turned to Victoria. "Does he seem like more of a prick than usual or is it just me? And why in Avo's name is everyone panicking over a bloody ship?"

Victoria remained quiet for a moment, lost in thought. She watched the ship's approach, not sure what to command her men to do, before finally divulging: "Someone tried to kill me last night."

Ben stared at her as if she'd suddenly grown a second head—concern and horror warring for control over his features, squashing down the glint of anger she'd momentarily seen in his blue eyes. "I—how—are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she insisted. "He snuck in while Hobson and I were sorting out the budget. I didn't find out anything useful before he died…damned shame."

Ben swore, raking a hand through his blond hair. His hand came to a rest at the back of his neck and he heaved a heavy sigh. "You think the two might be connected?"

"I think we're about to find out."

The ship was close enough to make out the detailing on its weathered wood. Victoria gestured for her men to get into position and wait for her command. If this was a preface to an attack, she wanted to be prepared. However, she did not draw her own weapons…just in case it wasn't an attack. (She didn't want to accidentally offend anyone—insinuating you wanted someone dead was bad for diplomacy, after all.) With slow, measured steps, she made her way half down the pier and stopped, hands folded behind her back. As Ben joined her side—his beloved rifle, Vanessa, cradled in his hands—the thought occurred to her that she had adopted Logan's favoured "I'm trying to maintain control without looking threatening" position. Victoria immediately forced the thought from her mind. Now wasn't the time.

She was dimly aware that Reaver and the Sergeant had followed them, coming to a halt much further back.

By the time the ship had docked, tension had somehow mounted. She could feel it in her muscles—a tingling like hundreds of ants underneath her skin. She hadn't been so twitchy in ages and, much to her chagrin, when a gangplank finally thudded down onto the dock, she jumped.

A sextet of soldiers tramped down the plank, almost immediately parting to form a path before springing to attention. Whispers followed them. Victoria's throat suddenly felt very, very dry. She'd seen such uniforms before; they were almost identical to the uniforms Logan's elite had worn. The colour was all wrong, though. Where Logan's guard had been striking in violet and silver, these men looked brooding and grim in black and bronze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ben shoot her a questioning glance. In reply, she marginally shook her head before stepping forward.

As though in response, a figure appeared at the top of the plank. Almost immediately he drew his sabre and dropped to one knee, holding the blade aloft as though offering it to the now speechless queen. Sunlight glinted off the sword's hilt in a blinding sheen. The dock had fallen silent once more, only for it to be shattered as the figure called out, "We are at your service, Your Majesty."

"I wasn't expecting that," Ben muttered, staring at the ship in ill-disguised confusion.

Neither was Victoria. It didn't sit well with her. She eyed the men warily and turned to look at her own soldiers—every single one of them looked uncomfortable and fidgety. Just as confused as Ben had sounded. Reaver caught her eye, his expression still unreadable. She glanced down to where his hand rested atop his Dragonstomper and then back up. Something in his eyes bothered her, but she couldn't put her finger on what. Deciding that pondering over Reaver's moods would have to wait until she could attempt to think clearly, she tore her gaze away from him and commanded of her men: "Stand down. Clearly what we have here is a misunderstanding; there's no need for violence or bloodshed today."

The words tasted like a lie, even though they felt and sounded true. Victoria turned back to the ship as the figure rose and sheathed his sword. He began to make his way down to her and she decided that, if this was a trap, there was nothing she could do but play along until it was sprung. If it wasn't…she would have to worry about that later.

Uncertain about what else she could do when he finally reached her, she offered to let him stay in the castle. In hindsight, it was a mistake.

The stranger introduced himself as Commander Milton, the warden of Ravenscar Keep. His mission, he'd said, was of the utmost importance…though he'd refused to speak of it where prying ears might be listening. Victoria had barely managed to keep from either frowning or rolling her eyes at the proclamation; she'd heard that before and most of the men who had used it were all talk and trousers—rarely bearing enough important information to be concerning. That said, it was a rather uneventful ride back to the castle. Victoria and Reaver sat on one of the carriage's benches while Milton sat on the opposite side and stared out the window. In a way, she didn't blame them—he and Reaver had barely made it through introductions, neither entirely thrilled by the other. (Victoria supposed rumours of Reaver's doings must have made their way to the Keep; as for Reaver…she had no idea what about Milton had put a bee in his bonnet, but she wasn't surprised, either.) Ben had rejected Victoria's offer to join them.

"Are you certain?" Victoria had enquired, a concerned frown tugging at her lips.

"Yeah…yeah, it's fine," Ben nodded, waving her off. He tried for a nonchalant posture, but he couldn't hide the anxious twitch to his movements. "This Milton bloke…he's dodgy, but I doubt he could do any damage. And I need to be going soon."

"But you've only just come back."

"I know, I—" he raised a hand to scratch at a spot on his hairline, searching for words, before dropping it with a heavy sigh— "I found some new information on William."

Whatever reason Victoria had assumed for Ben's haste, that had not been it. Excitement and worry battled in her gut. Ben had relayed his unfortunate family history to her one night a little less than a year ago. His eldest brother's death, his second eldest brother's arrest and subsequent disappearance, his failed attempt at saving his third brother's life, which had preluded the deaths of his parents. It had been...an awkward conversation. One neither of them had particularly enjoyed. But the mystery of whether or not William Finn was still alive after his incarceration had always intrigued her. She'd been aware Ben was keeping an ear out for news, but she hadn't actually expected him to find anything. If only William didn't have one of the most common names in all of Albion.

"That's wonderful, Ben!"

He made a helpless gesture as though attempting to discourage her enthusiasm. "Just hearsay and rumours." At her expectant expression, he added: "I heard from a mercenary I used to know when I lived in Bloodstone and they pointed me towards someone named Taggert. Arsehole; slaver—specializing in the 'retrieval of runaways' or something like that. Apparently Taggert used to have a run of bad luck where a particular slave was concerned."

"William," Victoria murmured, the revelation leaving a foul taste in her mouth.

"Maybe. The description fits, at least. 'Course now I can't get a single person to tell me where Taggert is."

"There has to be some information on Taggert out there! Give me a couple days to sort out Milton and I'll put some people on it. I can…I dunno, drag Rowan away from trying to murder Pierce. And—and Jer might know something. If there's a connection to Bloodstone, I could—"

A chuckle drew Victoria's attention out of her thoughts. Ben stared back with an almost familial softness and a crooked grin. "I appreciate it, Vic…I really do. But I've got to do this myself. And I think, after that assassin, maybe Bowerstone needs you more right now."

There was an air of great relief that settled over the trio as the finally drew near Bowerstone Castle. Or, at the very least, Victoria and Milton stood slightly less tense upon exiting the carriage. Reaver had taken to looking haughty and bored—as though he were sitting for a portrait that was taking far too long. In contrast, Victoria had taken to ignoring him. She had a feeling Reaver was in a mood and that it would make a very poor impression if they began bickering in front of Milton.

Milton, however, seemed content to simply stare up at the castle. His expression was inscrutable, but there was something fascinated about the sudden slowness of his movements.

"Is this your first visit to Bowerstone Castle, Commander?"

He started at her words, whirling to face her. She saw a faint flush spreading behind his thick, greying moustache and failed to hide an apologetic smile. Milton cleared his throat, embarrassed, before replying: "Not my first, Ma'am. Though it has been a long while, Your Majesty."

"Why ever am I not surprised?" Reaver muttered dryly. Victoria shot him a warning glance, though Milton didn't appear to have heard him.

With an odd sense of looming dread, Victoria led the way into the castle.

Walter and Jericho were waiting in the foyer, apparently deep in conversation. Walter's brow had furrowed into a deep frown and Jericho's lips were pursed with distaste. Heads bowed toward each other, they spoke conspiratorially in hushed, but quick, tones that made the words impossible to understand from the other side of the hall. Nevertheless, they both fell silent as the trio neared.

"Commander, I'm not certain if you've met—this is Sir Walter Beck, my steward and advisor. Walter, this is Commander Milton, he…is the warden of Ravenscar Keep."

Walter stepped forward, somehow projecting warmth and welcome, even though he couldn't have possibly been less suspicious than he had been before Victoria and Reaver had left. Shaking the younger man's hand, he greeted, "A pleasure, Commander. …ah, pardon the intrusion, but…Marine or…?"

"Oh, no, Sir. Navy," Milton replied. At Walter's exclamation of understanding, he added, "I've heard great things about you, Sir Walter. It's an honour to meet you at last."

"And this is…a friend of mine, Serafina Dubois," Victoria cut in, gesturing towards Jericho. The dark-skinned girl had changed out of her work clothes and into a simple gown. Somehow, she looked harmless and meek, like a shopkeeper's daughter and not the skilled detective she was. Good, Victoria thought. Jericho didn't want her secret getting out any more than Victoria wanted people to know of her…possession issues.

"Good day to you, miss," Milton greeted with a polite, if slightly formal, bow. Jericho's only response was a delicate inclination of her head.

They made awkward small talk for a few moments, but it wasn't until Walter reminded them about lunch that the conversation finally grew serious.

Victoria was fairly certain the cook had outdone himself this time as they took their seats—not in the grand dining room, which was usually reserved for formal meals, but in the small parlour she usually took tea with guests in. A magnificent smoked ham occupied the centre of the table along with a thick "old pea" soup. A pie of winter vegetables sat on the opposite end of the table from an herb pie, though they were nearly indistinguishable from each other. Staunchly aware of how hungry she was, Victoria made an effort to not immediately stuff her face with custard tart; it was an effort she was apparently alone in for, as soon as they sat down, Reaver set about filling his glass with syllabub and didn't appear to be the least bit repentant.

"I hate to press you, Commander," Victoria said as they settled in, "but I really must know: why did you come here?"

The table seemed to fall even quieter than it already had been. Walter paused, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth, and both Jericho and Reaver appeared to be listening intently—though only Jericho bothered to look otherwise focused on her plate.

Milton stayed quiet for a moment, frowning at his ham, before he finally spoke. "It pains me to admit this, Your Majesty, but we've had a bit of trouble. One of our prisoners escaped—a multiple murderer and general miscreant. Some of the other prisoners heard him making complaints and threats against the crown. We thought we should warn you, but you appear to be safe. Maybe we were wrong to assume he might come after you."

Victoria smiled, struggling to keep it friendly. "You're in luck, Commander, we may have your prisoner: he's in the city morgue, if you'd like to identify him. Though your concern is welcome, as you can see, no one was harmed."

"I'm pleased to hear it, Your Majesty. I would be happy to identify the body."

Buttering a roll, Victoria exchanged a glance with Walter. She was pleased to see he seemed to share her scepticism, his bushy brows furrowed questioningly. Across the table, Reaver met her gaze with an indecipherable look and a smirk that suggested he thought everyone at the table was a fool. If you have a suggestion, I'd love to hear it, she thought dryly, not in the mood to deal with him. Nothing about this situation was anywhere near ideal. The assassin had at least been up front about his intentions, but Milton? She wasn't sure where his loyalties lied and the timing of his appearance was a little too perfect. She wasn't comfortable with this.

"Commander," Walter began, drawing attention away from Victoria, "in your opinion, what would you say the current state of the Keep is?"

"We're woefully understaffed to handle the number of prisoners he have," Milton replied once he'd finished his bite of pie. "We get supplied every few months, but it's not enough to ensure we stay up to date and running safely between shipments. And that's not the worst of it."

Victoria frowned. "What is?"

"The Keep is built on technology that is nearly fifty years old—we have rust in all the machines and cracks in the stones that grow worse every winter. In the last few years, some of the lower cells have even collapsed. We have problems with mould and vermin. Every time sickness spreads through the Keep, out graveyard gets bigger. We don't have the equipment to repair the things we know how to fix and we don't have the knowledge or manpower to work on fixing everything else."

In the wake of Milton's words, Victoria found her hunger had vanished. She hadn't known. Hadn't considered what kinds of problems the Keep might have been facing. But it raised questions: where had all the original documents gone? Had Logan destroyed them? Or had they never been in the castle to begin with? And why now? She'd been on the throne for two years; why hadn't she been approached about the keep sooner?

Apparently following Victoria's train of thought, Reaver, who was somehow giving off the impression that he was sprawled in his chair despite the lack of room to do so, idly probed, "If you have so many problems, why not simply put in a request for Her Majesty to provide extra funding? Or…pay for a specialist yourself? Either would surely be preferable to the alternative."

Milton's jaw tensed and Victoria was well-versed enough to recognize the signs of someone who desperately wanted to throw something at Reaver. The Commander carefully set down his silverware, but his voice betrayed his annoyance as he sharply replied: "We put in requests years ago, when King Logan was still alive. Every time, they were denied."

"You were concerned I would deny them, as well," Victoria finished for him when he hesitated.

"Yes, Your Majesty. And I would not ask my men to part with gold their families need," Milton added, shooting a dark look towards the bored industrialist.

"I would not ask you to," Victoria put in before Reaver could even begin to respond. He may, conceivably, have had a point, but damn him if he ruined this. This was her chance. She needed information—on the Keep, on Turner, on why someone wanted her dead—and the only way she was going to get it was if she investigated…which wasn't going to happen if he kept making Milton angry. "In fact, I have a proposition for you. When your ship leaves to return to Ravenscar Keep, I would like to be on it. You can show me what needs to be repaired and I can make note so the budget may be adjusted accordingly."

The table had fallen completely and utterly silent. Not a single one of her companions succeeded in hiding their surprise. Jericho had frozen with a cup to her lips whilst Walter and Reaver had grown tense and wary. The forced frivolity of the room had vanished to be replaced with stares that indicated they disapproved of this act. Victoria's mind was made up, however, and she refused to acknowledge their condemnation; she instead elected to watch Milton. The Commander looked almost dazed, as though he hadn't expected she would even care to offer. For some unfathomable reason, it gave her hope.

After a long moment, Milton cleared his throat and unflinchingly met her gaze. "It would be an honour, Your Majesty. Perhaps we can make something good come out of the Keep, after all."

She smiled, genuinely this time, and everyone slowly returned to their meal. The momentary tenseness faded, for the most part, as Walter drew Milton into a conversation about their former military days. Victoria was about to begin tucking into her soup when, just under the lull of conversation, she heard Reaver drawl, "Well, this promises to be a fun journey."

She wasn't certain if she wanted to throw a roll at him or if, even worse, she thought he might be right.

Lunch concluded pleasantly enough. Hobson joined them after a point, but, after several attempts to engage Reaver in conversation failed, he fell mostly silent. Trivial conversation about the state of Bowerstone and the rest of the kingdom took precedence until the last of the dishes had been taken away. Jericho was the first to excuse herself; claiming she wanted to be home before dark (though it was still far too early for that to be a genuine concern), she left with a bow and soundless footsteps. Walter and Milton were the next to leave, with the intention of visiting the morgue. Fortunately for Victoria, Walter dragged Hobson along with them with a weak excuse about docking tariffs. And so Victoria was left alone, staring out the front door as a light rain fell in blessed silence. Well…almost alone.

"Such a fascinating conversation, ma chere, I certainly hope you're not actually intending to go with him," Reaver intoned from somewhere behind her.

Victoria tore her gaze away from the sodden garden and drive to frown at him. He didn't seem bothered, leaning against one of the hall's pillars as though he'd always been there. His walking stick was tucked under one arm and Victoria wondered if he's crossed his arms for the sake of comfort of to appear disappointed in her…and then she decided it didn't matter.

"Why do you care?" she asked dryly, wondering if she could convince him to leave through lack of patience alone. This was the most they'd been around each other in about a year and it was more than beginning to grate on her. As far as she was concerned, he didn't deserve any cordialness if he was going to be a prat and, until he acknowledged that she was a creature with feelings and he'd fucked everything up, she wasn't about to be overly cautious with his feelings.

"Who said I did?" Reaver enquired, cocking a brow at her. She barely kept from flinching—why did that hurt? Fortunately, Reaver was still talking and didn't appear to notice: "No, my concerns are more along the lines of…honestly, you can't really believe this isn't a trap. He's all but spelled it out for you."

"Thank you for that observation, Reaver. Perhaps you should employ those observational skills to see when your presence is no longer required. You may leave."

Victoria pulled the door open a bit further to usher him out as quickly as possible. Reaver pushed off the pillar, walking stick in hand, and stalked towards her. At first she thought he might actually leave. Instead, he closed the door with a snap. Somehow he made the whole two inches of difference between their heights seem like a couple feet, looming over her like a shoddy penny dreadful villain.

"What do you think will happen when you reach the Keep? Do you think Milton will give you the answers you want?"

She tsked. "It doesn't matter what I think. Perhaps he'll help, perhaps he won't. Either way, I'll handle it if it becomes a problem."

"Then you shan't mind if I join you."

"I—" What was she supposed to say? What, by Avo, was he thinking? "That's absolutely out of the question. I don't need your assistance, Reaver. And it's highly unlikely there will be any risk to my person, so, as kind as it is for you to offer, I must decline."

"In terms of physical confrontation, you're correct, Your Majesty. You don't need my assistance; you're capable enough. However. There's one instance you've not accounted for."

"Oh?"

"Say you're correct and this isn't a trap and you get the information you seek, how then do you plan on budgeting for renovations if you don't know the price?"

She faltered. She hadn't thought that far ahead, but this felt like a test and, if it was, she couldn't admit that she didn't know. "Hobson can come with me. He can sum up what's needed and figure out a rough estimate before we bring in professionals."

"And how will he be able to give an apt estimate if he doesn't know what companies, including mine, would charge for such work?"

Victoria froze. So that had been why he was testing her. Damn him and his ability to easily find loopholes, if only because she didn't have an answer for him. She didn't understand why he was being so adamant about joining them—it was likely to be tedious; far too "Hero of the people" for his liking. However, she…also had to admit that he had a point. It would be much easier to resolve everything with someone knowledgeable there. And, if he stayed out of her immediate way, it wouldn't be too bad to have him around. He was resourceful, clever, and useful in a fight, even if she was angry at him. Besides, it wasn't as if she could turn him down on grounds of "I don't like you right now"; if she could, she would have fired Hobson ages ago. Besides, what did she really have to gain from refusing his request? Peace of mind…less migraines…fewer conflicted emotions.

"Have it your way, Reaver. Come, don't come; I don't care. I don't have time for this. I need to get back to work," she told him brusquely, backing towards the staircase. "Stay in the castle tonight if you want…or don't. Whatever you decide, I'll take no part in it. We leave first thing in the morning, with or without you. Just bear that in mind." Flustered and scowling, she turned and hurried up the stairs, leaving no room for rebuttal. Perhaps it was tempting Fate, but, in that moment, she would have rather dealt with the Crawler again than any of this…mess.

Don't press your luck, child, a voice murmured in the back of her mind. She ignored it and made her was to her study in silence.

It was late. Darkness had spread over Albion, bathing the country in starlight. Most residents were asleep or home for the evening. It was a few hours yet until pubgoers joined them. The towns and cities had faded into calm and quiet that belied the fact that there were still terrifying monsters prowling in the darkness, waiting for someone to wander into the right patch of foliage or down the right alleyway or to forget to lock their doors. The lone figure creeping away from Bowerstone Castle was unconcerned by the thought of monsters. She was more worried about the thought of someone peeking out their window at them as they hurried down empty streets. She tried to convince herself that this was good—empty streets meant she could move as quickly as possible without alarming anyone or missing that someone might be following her—but she still felt uneasy. She tried to keep to the darkest shadows and, once she reached Bowerstone Market, she used the landscape to her advantage, disappearing into the maze of unlit backstreets where none could easily follow her.

The air grew thicker and fouler-smelling the deeper into Bowerstone she travelled. Her pace began to slow, as well. She was no longer in a part of the city where she was mostly safe, nor was it the time of night to be irresponsible. After all, the humans might have mostly retired for the night, but there were still other, more insidious things wandering the night. A pair of whores walked, arm in arm, past the opening of the alley she lurked in—one's eyes a little too sharp with fingers like twigs and the other revealing teeth that were a little too long and a little too pointed every time she smiled—and, two blocks later, standing beside a guttering street lamp, she sidestepped a man covered in patches of long, wiry hair; he paid her little mind, picking at his wolf-like teeth with a long, sharp claw. Frankly, she was more concerned about cutthroats and thieves forcing her to reveal herself; the others, the ones who were more hunter than prey, always seemed to sense Will and usually kept back when they didn't want to be bothered. All in all, she reached the Riveter's Rest without incident and, ignoring the pub's entrance, slipped into the back alley without being spotted.

"You took longer than expected," a shadow called from a far corner of the twisting street.

"Perhaps I would have been faster if I wasn't concerned about someone murdering me," Victoria replied, grinning as she joined their side.

Page offered a small smile in return. Ever since Logan had attempted to push Reaver and Victoria into marriage, she and Page's relationship has been…strained. Tense. But they both were aware that the other wanted the best for Albion, so they were attempting to move past the distrust and towards a cohesive partnership. For the most part, it was working.

"Based on past experiences, it looks like being a monarch is bad for your health. Have you considered a new profession?" Page returned, shaking her hand when Victoria offered it.

"If someone who doesn't want to turn Albion into an industrial wasteland would like to try, I'd be happy to switch." Pebbles skittered down from the roof above them and they both looked up. "Jer, is that you?"

"Yes," came a faint murmur shortly before Jericho silently dropped down beside them. She'd changed into her work clothes and didn't at all seem pleased to be there. "I watched them most of the day; they went to the morgue, then wandered through Bowerstone. Milton parted ways with them at the docks. He stayed on the ship for a while, then returned to the castle. No other deviations."

"I'm assuming that's when you came to me?" Page enquired, smile beginning to fade.

"Yes."

"Have you—" a burst of laughter from the pub cut her off and she started in alarm— "have—"

Page raised a hand to interrupt her. "Perhaps we should first move this somewhere more private?"

She led them out the alley's other entrance and down a short flight of stone steps to where a rusted iron door lay even with the Bower River's waterline. It had once been a sewer access hatch, but, before Logan's regime had come to an end, it became the headquarters of the Bowerstone Resistance. Victoria felt a wash of nostalgia sweep over her as the door was unlocked and opened. How many times had she walked down these very steps to relay information to one of the members before running off on another quest? It had always seemed like something grand was being plotted here. Something that would change the world.

Now, however, the passageways were lifeless and dank. The air seemed stiller than she recalled, warmed by some factory's illegal venting practices, and there was a distant dripping sound that Victoria didn't recall having been there before. They passed through a large "hall" that she remembered being cluttered with small families and resistance members—always full of people chattering around small fires—only to find it was now unlit and empty but for the occasional squeak of rats. The only light was the distant glow of a distant lantern to guide them out of the darkness and into a small room.

All at once, Victoria wondered why Page was still there. Why she hadn't left. It was one thing to remain there when there had still been things to do, but there wasn't anyone here. No more orders to give and no tyrant to overthrow. All that was left was a now empty shell of a headquarters that had once done great things. It made her…sad. Uncomfortable. She almost didn't want to be there.

But she bit her tongue, holding back her thoughts as Page led them into the room that served as her quarters and shut the pressure door behind her.

"There. I don't believe we'll be disturbed here," Page remarked, shrugging off her coat and tossing it onto a rickety chair. As Jericho leaned against a worn table—a faded, roughly drawn map of Albion spread across the top with only a few nails holding it in place—Page lit another lantern. Light spread a touch further, glinting off the dusty pipes sprawling across the ceiling, and illuminating a well-lived-in sleeping area and work area. Victoria noted Page had an extra crate of novels that she hadn't had last time Victoria had been there.

"Have you heard anything?" Victoria asked, pulling her attention away from the framed wanted poster above Page's cot. "About…anything?"

"I've heard a lot of things; but something useful to you? Not a word." Page sighed, shaking her head. Frowning, she sat down in the nearest chair. "I've never heard of this Milton, but I recall stories about General Turner. He was a war hero."

"I looked though some old documents whilst I was with Sir Walter," Jericho input, "and he was…prolific. Storied. I don't understand how Logan got away with arresting him."

It was Victoria's turn to frown. "That explains why the rest of the militia were so afraid to overthrow Logan, though. If he could arrest the best of them, then none of them were safe. But that doesn't explain why Turner would want me dead now."

"Actually," Page said, "it might. No one had a very good opinion of the monarchy in the end, except those actively profiting from it. Turner hasn't been here to see the changes; he might believe nothing is different."

"Then I need to convince him otherwise."

"That is a very dangerous idea," Jericho told her. "And I do not trust Milton. You shouldn't be going alone. It's likely a trap and there's naught you can do against an entire island…I shall go with you."

"You sound like—" Victoria broke off with a sigh. There was no need to antagonize either of them, especially when they were right. "I'm sorry; you…have a point. If you want to come, I won't stop you. Though it promises to be a dull voyage."

"I'll bring something to occupy myself," Jericho assured her. "However, I am not offering to join you for amusement's sake."

Well, Victoria couldn't help but think; at least you're being honest about your intentions…unlike Reaver.

"Who are you leaving control of the throne to while you're gone?" Page enquired, a faint edge creeping into her voice. And Victoria was suddenly aware that this was a test of their trust. Whether Victoria would choose to temporarily put someone who cared for the people on the throne or not. She almost wondered what Page would say if she knew who else was joining her voyage to the Keep, and then decided it wasn't worth the fight.

"Walter."

"Good," Page replied, relief overriding any traces of anxiety. "I'll keep my ears open and keep a look out for anything suspicious. It won't do you much good while you're gone, but Walter will be able to pass it on to you."

They lingered for a while, finalizing their plans and discussing Ben's unexpected return. As the night went on, Victoria found herself surprised by how much more hopeful she was now that she'd spoken to them both. Eventually, though, they were forced to part ways. And, as Victoria made her slow progress back to the castle, she decided sleep felt a long ways off. It didn't feel like the Crawler's doing, though. No; she simply feared the dawn and the long journey that followed with it.

AN: And so we begin another journey. So many sneaky sneakers not giving up their motives. How rude. As usual, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'd love to see your thoughts on it. :)

Dev. Notes: I almost didn't put all the cameos in this chapter, but I ended up missing Page and Ben when I got to draft two, so I thought it'd be nice to add them in? It seems like side characters get forgotten about whenever a specific pairing is being focused on, so...yeah. It just felt right. Also, can someone please tell poor Ben where his brother is? Poor boy.