[Note: this is a sequel to The Young Diplomat. I hope the two can be enjoyed independently, but if you want a good introduction to some of the characters, The Young Diplomat introduces them all. Thanks!]
Rain battered the side of the ship in a steady rhythm, interrupted by the occasional sudden change in the direction of the wind. The young woman didn't want to think about the trip, not when the wind had been so strong that the ship had been listing at a sharp angle the entire night while they crossed the open sea. She had been sure that she would have fallen out if there had been an open window. How did people even travel to the Southern Isles before steamships?
The captain made the call to disembark, and she longed to be on solid ground again. She grabbed the single bag she had brought with her and headed to the gangway, bracing for the soaking rain that no coat would protect against. The line of people coming out of the steerage class was long and slow. First-class passengers had disembarked an hour ago, their servants carrying everything they had brought with them. But she couldn't take the risk. She needed the anonymity of steerage.
As she walked up the steps to the outside, she could feel the misty rain beginning to sting at her face, followed by the rush of cold and wet when she emerged into the outside. The wind whipped at her dress and hair, tearing at the simple bun she had pulled it into this morning.
There was practically a waterfall at the roof overhang to the building they were heading to, drenching anything that hadn't already been soaked by the wind and rain. The snail's pace of the line delayed the moment of reckoning and the ultimate relief from the weather indoors. She wasn't sure what to expect inside; she hadn't actually done any research about entering the Southern Isles, legally or otherwise, and someone else always took care of the details when she was traveling officially.
Every few minutes, the line would move again, sometimes enough that it seemed they might get inside sooner than expected, but it always stopped again shortly thereafter.
She was starting to feel hungry. It had been over a day since she had last eaten, and then it was a few bland, salty crackers. Even that was almost too much for her stomach to bear. Tonight, perhaps, she would find something at some inn, but it would still need to be as bland as possible. She couldn't trust her stomach yet.
As the line lurched forward, she felt the splatter from the water coming down off of the overhang. She knew little to nothing about the Southern Isles, even though it was closer to her home where she had spent most of her life than many other places she had traveled. She knew why now, but she still regretted knowing so little, and at this moment, she was wondering just how much she would end up regretting this whole adventure of hers.
Her place in line thankfully didn't pause under the overhang, so the soaking was brief, though she already knew she would have to dry everything out as soon as she found a room here. She had no idea where that would be. She realized she didn't know where anything was, and whether it would be considered safe for a woman traveling alone, who for all anyone knew, was single and unchaperoned.
The building was at least somewhat warm. She could imagine that this part of her wait was much more pleasant today than if it had been a sunny day. The stifling heat of a large, indoor room, with everyone overdressed, carrying too much luggage, and never getting a chance to stop or take off a layer, would probably produce an unbearable stench, especially right now. The smell of the rain wasn't too bad, even with some of the animal smells she could detect today. It could get a bit overwhelming. Back home, she hadn't even been able to go to the stables for weeks at a time, as clean as they were kept. She was feeling better now. It wouldn't be a problem.
She could see the end of the line now. There was a long row of desks, with stern-looking men inspecting papers and stamping them, sending people on, or occasionally taking them aside to small rooms for some purpose she couldn't guess. She hadn't noticed any travelers coming out of those rooms in the few minutes she had been inside, but she had seen a few going in.
As they moved forward, an official looked at her and gestured for her to go to the third desk from the left. She walked over quickly, then hesitated a few feet from the desk with the stern-looking middle-aged man.
"Come forward!" he barked.
She obliged and stood at the desk.
"Papers?"
She hadn't thought this through. The ship hadn't asked anything when she booked her ticket.
"I-I thought the shipping company took care of that," she stammered.
The man groaned, "Fine, Miss, your surname? I'll look you up on the ship's manifest."
"My surname," she trailed off, realizing she really hadn't thought this through. What name had she given when she purchased her ticket? Her husband's name wasn't an option, not right now. The people behind her started to mutter in annoyance. She was drawing attention to herself, and tried to avoid getting flustered as she realized just how little she had thought through all of this. This wasn't Arendelle where she knew practically everyone and everything, nor was it Corona where someone was always prepared to tell her exactly what was expected of her. She had no idea what she should be doing at this moment, and it was terrifying.
"Yes, Miss? We haven't got all day. Long line behind you."
"Oh, yes, sorry. Bjorgman."
"There, I see. Ingeborg?"
"Yes, sir."
"Quaint," he mumbled under his breath, pulling out a form and busily scribbling in some information.
She began feeling lightheaded and hoped that she would soon be allowed to head out and figure out her next step, whatever that might be.
"Miss Bjorgman," the man announced after finishing a few sections, "we'll need you to step aside and fill out this visa and customs declaration form before we're done, unless you have a passport already."
"Oh," she said, relieved that he didn't seem suspicious.
"It may take a few days for everything to be processed," he told her blandly.
"A few days?" she exclaimed. Several more people in line turned to look at her.
"I'm afraid so," he told her, "but this would all be much simpler if you had taken care of everything before you left home. Of course, I'm aware we don't have embassies in certain countries, and if that is the case for you, it will take even longer to process."
"Oh… but…" she felt a rising panic in her chest. This was going to be more than some inconvenient paperwork. She felt a hand grip her arm.
"Inga! There you are! Don't tell me you already lost your passport!" The voice was one she hadn't heard in years, but it was immediately familiar.
"Lars?" she gasped, looking over in shock. Her mind was reeling, but their immediate situation didn't allow her to even think of half the questions she wanted to ask him, and she knew she wasn't even in a position to ask the most basic questions right now. The full beard didn't hide who she was looking at, and he clearly recognized the eldest daughter of Queen Anna of Arendelle. Could others recognize her? No time to worry about that at the moment. As far as she was aware, Lars Nilsen, her half brother, hadn't left his post in America as Arendelle's ambassador since he had accepted it over a decade ago. Inga still thought it was a rushed decision by her mother, but he seemed to be making the best of the position. She had been writing to his wife, Elizabeth, nearly constantly this whole time, and while she told Inga how her husband was often away from home, everything seemed to be going well. Inga certainly didn't expect to see him in the Southern Isles, though she could understand the curiosity he might have, being, as polite company would put it, the "natural child" of one of the members of their royal family.
The officer looked up skeptically. "And, you, sir, are?"
"Please excuse me," he said, handing over an American passport with a few large bills sticking out, "and please excuse my sister, she can be forgetful, especially on voyages."
Her eyes widened at hearing him call her his sister, and unfortunately the clerk seemed to notice this. Neither she nor Lars had spoken since both of them knew their real relationship.
But whose passport was that?
"Very well, Mr. Nilsen," the clerk nodded. "And I hope your sister is well."
Inga felt the meaning of the clerk's words, that Lars calling her his sister was a cover for something illicit. Even though it was technically true, they hadn't grown up together, and neither of them had known about Lars's true origins until they were already acquainted with each other. This clerk saw hundreds of people every day, so perhaps he had a sense for such details. Still, the bribe Lars handed him appeared to be large enough.
"Oh, the last names, of course you would question that," Lars replied casually, setting down a folded up promissory note as he picked up his empty passport, "Nothing amiss, I promise."
"Fine, enjoy your family reunion," the clerk scoffed, quickly hiding his bribe.
"Have a good day, sir," Lars called out as he pulled Inga toward the street.
"What's going on?" Inga demanded, switching to her own language as they emerged outside. Lars waved down a carriage.
"I think I could be asking you the same question," he replied, assisting her into the empty carriage. It was dry and surprisingly warm. Lars got in, closing the door, and the carriage began moving without a word from him. "Blanket?" he offered, reaching into a trunk under the seat.
"Thank you," she replied, accepting the blanket, pulling it around herself.
"Now that we have privacy," Lars began, "What are you doing here? You're lucky that we happened to be here today."
"Privacy? How can you be sure the driver doesn't understand what we're saying?" she asked.
"He understands everything, but he's with me," Lars told her. "I believe you know him, too. He spent a few years in Arendelle. And, yes, he could be considered a spy, but one you want on your side."
"Wait," Inga looked through the front window of the carriage at the driver. "Is that John Larsen? You know him? Halima was complaining about how suddenly he left Arendelle last year. She was all set to retire."
"Yes." Lars laughed a little, then sighed. "Unfortunately, he couldn't give his real reason for leaving."
"How do you know him?"
"I suggested the name Larsen. He needed something that wouldn't raise any suspicions while he was traveling around Arendelle."
"Why would he need a new name?"
"When I met him, he went by John Westergard."
Inga froze, immediately understanding the implications. The House of Westergaard was the royal family of the Southern Isles, but she vaguely recalled from some lessons that they had some territories in the West Indies. John, with his dark complexion and hair, very clearly didn't look like a Westergaard, unlike Lars. John, in fact, had gotten questions about being a relation of General Mattias while he was in Arendelle, which he laughed off. There wasn't much resemblance beyond their complexion; their noses looked nothing alike, and even in his old age, the General was noticeably taller.
"He's not-" Inga tried to think of a way to ask the obvious question on her mind. "Is he related?"
"No," Lars replied quickly. "I ascertained that very quickly when we first met. He and his family were affiliated with the Westergard family. He was born when they were still living in the West Indies, and then they were moved to Louisiana. After the War, John came to the embassy for a visa to Arendelle."
"Oh," Inga said, realizing what Lars had implied about John's past. He hadn't said anything while he was living in Arendelle, but she'd also never thought to ask.
"John is fluent in the language here, and has met nearly every member of the Royal Family, but thankfully, none of them remember him. Posing as my driver and valet, he's practically invisible, and we might as well take advantage of that."
"That's all very interesting, Lars," Inga said, "but you speak the language here."
"I suppose you didn't notice, but my accent is nearly as bad as yours. It's not something I learned in school. Everyone can tell I'm not from around here. My only advantage over you is that I'm not obviously from Arendelle, though you did well to travel in steerage."
Inga sat silently as the rain battered the windows of the carriage. She knew she had too many questions to ask of Lars, things that she should know, or at least, things that she should have been told of long ago.
"Wait," she spoke up, "why do you have an American passport? Is it even real?"
"It is real," he told her, "and I was able to get it a few years ago, with very few questions, completely legitimate from their point of view, and—"
"Excuse me," she interrupted, "but as far as I know, we're still paying you to be Arendelle's ambassador, and…"
"And I'm sure that Arendelle knows exactly where you are right now." Lars looked at her raising an eyebrow.
Inga stopped. As far as her family knew, she had gone to a retreat near Bergen, to forget about her worries for a time. She had certainly been preoccupied, but she had never had any intention of staying at the retreat, rather she always intended to get herself closer to the port in Bergen, to slip out of the country unnoticed.
She began crying. Her children were fine. They were well taken care of at the castle in Arendelle, but she had never been apart from them before this week.
"How do you do it, Lars? Leaving your family for such long stretches of time?"
Lars was silent, looking out the window of the carriage. As they pulled up to a grand residence, he looked over at Inga. "I know that they're safe. I have to do what I have to do, and it's safer if they stay where they are."
Inga nodded. In her letters to Inga, Elizabeth often told her about the long absences, which she seemed to take in stride, since her father was a navy captain. Had it really been ten years since she'd seen her? No, it had been almost eleven years now.
"We're here, by the way," Lars said, as a footman opened the carriage door.
"Where?" Inga asked.
"The Corona Embassy," he told her. "They'll have dry clothes for you, of course."
"They will? But I've never been here."
"You're a member of the royal family, so they're always prepared."
"Oh. Of course," she said. She had lived in Corona long enough when they were first married, she should have remembered this. Somehow, she always felt like an outsider. Eventually, the trips home to Arendelle stretched longer and longer, until she and Henry were only making short trips back to Corona each year, sometimes skipping a year entirely, especially in the last few years.
They rushed through the rain inside, maids assisting her with her bag and coat and showing her to her room, where a choice of dresses and clean linens had already been set out for her.
"How did you know?" she asked the maid who was helping her take off her wet clothes.
"We didn't, Your Highness," the woman replied, "but the clothes were in the wardrobe in this room already. It's where His Highness stays when he visits."
"Oh," Inga nodded. She hadn't looked around the room yet, but she quickly noticed a painting of her and the two older children that was clearly in Henry's style. She swallowed hard to avoid crying again. "Is James here?" Inga asked, realizing that she hadn't heard news of Henry's valet, either.
"Yes, he is, would you like to speak to him?"
"Perhaps later," Inga replied, always nervous about seeing James. He was a good man, but he certainly knew more than she wished people knew.
"Do you have a preference on which dress?" the maid asked her. "I can put away the other one while you're in the bath. The other maid has prepared it, just through that door, if you're ready."
"What time is it?" Inga asked, having not located a clock in the room.
"It is nearly dinnertime, and they told me you're expected."
"I'll take the blue one, then, the one on the left, thank you," Inga sighed. She wouldn't be able to eat, she knew very well. But she assumed that Lars and perhaps Mr. Pincar, Corona's ambassador to the Southern Isles, would be able to tell her more, so she should show up.
"Very well, now you can go clean up," the maid told her.
The bath warmed her up nicely, and washing off the grime of travel was beyond refreshing. As she dried off, she sat down and allowed the maid to take care of her hair, carefully combing and braiding it into a pleasing style. Inga realized that she had no idea how simple this dinner might be, or who she could expect to see when she went downstairs. Either way, she was, by marriage, Princess of Corona, and standards of decorum at the embassy here in the Southern Isles, her husband had already told her, were higher than at home in Corona.
She was thankful that the dress was clearly made to more recent measurements. She had followed her mother's advice to get rid of her older dresses once she'd had children, rather than worry over waistlines that could only be painfully regained. Her mother also advised her to look the other way as their official charity donations were quickly sold off at a premium. A second-hand dress of a Princess of Arendelle could be sold at quite a markup, after all.
Inga asked the maid to give her a few minutes, and return to let her know when it was almost time for dinner. In the quiet, when she was finally alone, with only the sound of the rain battering the windows and the crackling of the fire in the fireplace, she could finally take a few minutes to get her bearings in the room.
It was clearly the room that Henry had stayed in. It had been nearly two months since his last letter now, and he had already been gone an extra two weeks beyond the two he was supposed to have been away. It hadn't even been anything important, just another agreement that would look better with an actual member of the royal family present. His letters had seemed uncharacteristically worried, and then simply stopped. For the first time in ten years, his letters had stopped. She had tried to be patient, but nobody could answer any of her questions about why someone who had always written to her before would suddenly stop. Something was wrong, and she wasn't allowed to do anything about it. She didn't like feeling helpless.
Sitting on the edge of the large bed, Inga casually opened the drawer of the nightstand. Inside, she found a plain notebook, which she promptly opened. It was Henry's sketchbook. On the first few pages were sketches of her and the children in the spring back in Arendelle, mostly playing in the castle garden and at the cabin in the mountains, but there were a few of herself that caused her to blush, though she remembered a few times he had drawn her like that. She had the feeling she was the only other person who had seen this, at least.
On the later pages, there was a mix of sketches of buildings and people from the streets of the city where they were in the Southern Isles, a few architectural details from the room she could recognize just looking around, and lots of sketches from memory of her and the children. The last page with anything on it was dated September twelfth, the same as his last letter. It was already November.