Report - Operation Witch Hunt

Mission Debrief:

Lead Operative: Bani Elkind

Operative: Maarten Ramseier

Contractor: Bjorn Oleander

Subject: Monica Granger

Expenses: 300 Lyra (Receipts included)

Outcome: Success

Summary:

Bani Elkind, solo operator. Paired with Bjorn Oleander (Contractor). Receipt of known practitioner, Monica Granger, who had violated Clovian custom. Studying magic as a commoner while under Lord Pelletier’s employ. Monica and field agent Maarten Ramseier had been marked and nearly compromised on pickup. Bjorn and Bani evaded enemy action and transported the subject to Neuchatel, Burgundia safely.

Detail:

Bring a coat if you’re planning a trip to Clovia. While spring is typically unpredictable just about anywhere. Clovia brings us a memorable springtime with bristling winds and heavy downpours. While the weather is similar enough to Bugundia, the hospitality and charm can’t quite meet the same warmth that we’re accustomed to.

I like to travel light, bringing just enough to be comfortable with moving from the train to the cab. I wore a simple outfit, wearing layers of a tweed sport coat over a dense earthy cardigan. Wool trousers with suspenders. I decided to avoid long underclothes since, if it’d come to being out in the open, it would likely be one of many more important problems.

Outside of a generous bundle of eight hundred Lyra and my own paperwork, I held the papers that would get Monica Granger across the border, showing her as Mila Aleksander, a Burgundian on holiday in Clovia.

The man I was to meet, Bjorn, filled up the cab with his dense physique. He was clearly a Norman, or, more appropriately, a Northman. His viking descent was clear. He had a moody air to him, but it was clear it came from experience. A gruff pessimism isn’t something you end up with at the end of a war. He’d seen it all up close and personal, as his file had said. We were a natural fit, like oil and water. Meaning, we both had our jobs and we stuck to them. His experience was truly a counterbalance to my own nerves. And, while not my first time by any means, I was far from comfortable.

It’s said that the difference in expectations is what causes dissatisfaction. For this operation, I’ve chosen to have little to no expectations of the outcome.

As we set out, Bjorn sized me up in the rearview mirror.

“Are ya armed?”

“Yes. I’ve got my Toro.”

“Ya know your way around a shotgun?”

“Absolutely. Though I prefer a rifle.”

Bjorn shrugged.

“Look under da seat.”

A well oiled shotgun was attached to the bottom of the seat, held snugly in place by breakaway clamps. I left it in place, running my fingers along the pistol grip handle. It was custom, well used, but also well maintained. A sturdy ammo box was bolted to the side of the compartment, I flipped a latch and found a sampling of grenades bundled in cloth. I clamped the ammobox down.

“And grenades? Nothing like going out with a bang.”

A glance at the rearview mirror showed he still looked straight ahead, but his eyes held a slight smile. I returned everything to its place, but I could still smell the gun oil on my hand. For whatever reason, it was comforting, even while sitting on a bouquet of grenades.

We continued, speaking in short bursts. He pulled a few draughts from a flask he kept close. The smell of spirits mixed with the smells of coming rain that blew in through the vents. The already overcast skies grew more threatening as we moved toward the border.

As we moved into Neuchatel, Bjorn grunted about finding the safehouse before we continue on to the border. It was that level of forethought that reminded me that I should be taking some mental notes from the burly cab driver. The safehouse was tucked among the rowhomes facing the river. They were near-indistinguishable from each other. We drove past it once before locking onto the small, neatly placed numbers on the right doorpost.

“That’s de one.” He nodded toward the door.

He leaned forward and produced a rag from under the seat. He opened the door and unfolded from the cab, setting off to a neighboring light post. He tied the rag there with a simple knot. It’d be easy to see if we were under duress. I scratched out another mental note.

We set off for the border, Neuchatel’s large keep shrunk behind us.The steeples of the keep’s towering church were the last things to disappear behind the mountains. The sight made me feel just a touch sentimental.

We spoke of the mission.

“What’s yer plan?”

I thought briefly, and just as I opened my mouth.

“Ya should go wit pickin’ up your fiance? How ‘bout dat?”

“Yes. Sure. I was just thinking that.”

The story played well in my head. As I mulled on it, I felt myself dropping into the role. My skills didn’t run in this area, but this was all about adaptability and, more importantly, the confidence to trust I could adapt.

As we closed in on the border, Bjorn pulled to a petrol station, moving in close to the pump. I noted that he was going with “the good stuff” as it were. I had little understanding of those things. I made my way out of the cab to stretch my legs. It was chilly, but nothing untoward for springtime. The rains were nearly upon us, you could smell it, taste it, and now feel the heaviness of it. Any moment now.

As I meandered into the station the rain started as subtle as a handful of gravel sprinkled on a tin pot. I browsed through the knick-knacks briefly. A sun hat—completely useless in this weather, a scarf with the markings of the Burgundian flag, and a small sampling of chocolates. My betrothed needed gifts from our long time apart, after all. I paid for the fuel and the small sampling of gifts then I walked back to the vehicle, protecting the receipts and goods with the quickly-soaking sun hat.

Bjorn scowled briefly, seeing that I had paid for the petro then huffed a laugh at the sight of the paltry selection.

“It’s all they had!” I said, shrugging.

“She’d best kick ya to da curb when she sees dat.”

“I never intended to be a good fiance.”

That may have been a little too close to the truth. All the best, sweet Cassandra.

Bjorn appeared to have been out when the rain started, droplets of water standing in his beard. He seemed slightly more irritated than before. It was difficult to gauge his irritation, both the degree and severity were nearly unreadable.

To get into it, if you’re looking to travel through Clovia, it’s best to start with understanding the people: The Gaulish tend to be a forlorn bunch. Oppressed, some may say, but perhaps it’s simply boredom from hitting rocks together. Transit through Clovia is much like stepping back in time. Outside of noteworthy city buildings, noble houses, and polished vehicles, the rest is quite simple. The most notable pastimes are drinking and, possibly, more drinking. The working man has progressed little more than past the age of Iron and communicating with smoke signals.

State agents seemed to be a few steps above the common folk. The guards at the border greeted us with quickly barked orders and snappy gestures. Each hoped that their young faces looked hardened enough by the scowls they wore to pass for threatening. Perhaps this was part of their training, to sweat out the guilty. Unfortunately for them, we weren’t guilty of anything yet.

Bjorn played to the one while I played to the other our roles coincided, but were clearly separate. Oil. Water.

As we left the border, the rain on the roof was the chatty third passenger. This lasted for a majority of the way to our destination. Bjorn would squint through the windshield and curse silently as the driver side wiper blade seemed to fail him. We stopped again, this time I stayed in and watched as he struggled with a new wiper blade. We set off down the road again and he made another clearly dissatisfied gesture at the wiper.

I thought again of the degrees and severity of his mood, but he clearly had a defined set of compartments for his various thoughts and feelings. He spoke evenly of the mission whilst his frustration level was high. His emotions toward specific circumstances were neatly divided and did not appear to pool together.

The rain had reduced down to a drizzle for a short time, then stopped altogether and the clouds began to part. Bjorn’s initial frustration had subsided, he was focused on the road ahead. Through each change in the weather, he was unfazed. Expertly guiding the trundling vehicle down the highway.

“We’re here.”

We pulled from the smooth highway then meandered through old streets. Bikes and autos dotted the area, very few of them in motion with the recent rains. I could feel a tremble through the seat as we rolled over disheveled paver stones. Clovia and their stones, after all.

After a mixture of roads and roundabouts, a thick forest of monuments and mausoleums came into view. This was the cemetery we were meant to pick up the subject. A tall statue overlooked the area.

Bjorn grunted at the ancient graveyard, and nodded. Then shuddered as he got close.

“I init going ta park dere.” He said, mostly to himself, as he glided past the cemetery.

I leaned into his words for a moment, then understood. He moved down the road to the front of a neighboring hotel. I looked at him.

“Stay in sight. Right?”

“Right.”

“You know who yer lookin’ for?”

“Yes. Just a description, but it’s recognizable enough.”

“Let’s hope she’s not too recognizable.”

The thought made me catch my breath. There’s a fine line between feeling cautious and feeling panic. I shook it off and exited the cab making sure to take the sun hat and scarf with me Then made my way toward the cemetery.

It took me a moment to recapture my earlier thoughts. I saw the setting sun and remembered that I was a man in love, seeing his fiance after a long holiday. I lengthened my stride with the thought. An older gentleman was moving the same direction. Smoke curled from his pipe emitting a lovely aroma. He also had a bundle of mixed wildflowers held tightly by the stems in his other hand. I smiled to myself.

“That is a lovely tobacco. What blend is that?”

I walked beside him for a moment. His bushy salt and pepper eyebrows raised at me as he studied my face. He puffed briefly as he walked and thought.

“Sugar Sand,” he said with a thick Gualish accent and gesturing, “Tobacco shop. Two streets.”

“Where did you get flowers?”

His head bobbed back toward where we had just come.

“Umm, fleur ... florist in hotel.” He struggled with his Burgundian for a moment.

“Thank you, sir.” I smiled warmly with a nod and turned heel before even crossing the street.

Bjorn had exited his vehicle, the “off duty” lights were on. He was leaning on the front fender. He appeared to be waiting for a fare from the hotel. He narrowed his eyes briefly as he watched me walk back, but gave no other acknowledgement.

I rushed into the florist and quickly assembled a collection of rich red roses. She paired the ensemble with sprigs of baby’s breath and pussy willow. She didn’t speak, but nodded as I counted out the cost of the arrangement. The red silk ribbon cost nearly the amount of the entire bouquet.

I exited the hotel and moved back toward the cemetery. I could see that the old man had since settled in front of a gravestone, sitting on a thick blanket, sipping from a bottle of spirits. Clearly having a drink with an old friend.

There were very few other people near the front of the cemetery. Still, it took me a moment to see the couple sitting in the shadow of the statue. They were slightly too far apart to be a couple, but close enough that they were clearly together. His pant cuffs were muddy and they were considerably under-dressed for the inclimate weather.

I stood facing the statue flowers and gifts in hand. I could see Bjorn in the distance, looking in my direction, he gave a subtle nod toward the couple. I wrapped the scarf with the Burgundian flag around my hand and held it in the small of my back with my hand open. As I considered how to engage, I saw a woman move toward Bjorn and begin talking animatedly. Her motions were exaggerated, erratic. I squinted at the engagement, trying to get a read on Bjorn’s body language.

“Parasol.” A tense male voice said behind me.

All my attention clicked back to the couple behind me. I recognized the word. I thumbed through the code words in my memory. I counted in my head, using mnemonics I devised for exactly this.

“Candor.” I responded.

“Isthmus.” He said, his voice easing.

“Vacillate.”

There was an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. I glanced down, and saw out of the corner of my eye that the man from the bench was now crouched two meters behind me, tending to his shoes.

“I wish you had come earlier. We’ve been marked. Someone or something has been on our trail. Don’t turn around, just listen.”

This must have been Maarten, one of the firstclassmen of Nachtricter. I lifted my gaze to the statue and saw Bjorn still talking with the woman who seemed intensely engaged. She stood extremely close to him, her head tilting as her mouth moved rapidly. Bjorn slowly shook his head then gestured toward the cab. She seemed visibly put off, and moved past him. She scanned the area moving toward the crosswalk. I shuddered. I think I may have just seen who was looking for them.

“I need to leave her with you. She’s bound to catch a cold and needs to be cared for. Please, care for her.”

It was an interesting turn of phrase. I nodded toward the statue. I heard him stand and the grind of his shoes as he turned and then footsteps faded away. There was a brief silence, then I felt a cold hand take mine.

I turned and looked at her, giving her my best smile. She clearly fit the description of Monica. I could read the thousand indications of a woman near panic and bound to snap. It was time to take control.

I embraced her warmly, feeling her stiffen against me, then slowly relax into it.

“Monica, we’re here to take you to safety.” I whispered in the embrace.

“They know we are here!” She said, with a clear Gaulish accent.

“Oh. Dammit.”

“I know. It’s terrifying.” Her voice was a trembling whisper.

“No, not that. Something else. Let’s go. Just follow my lead.”

I pulled back from the embrace and took her hands, still smiling. Her face was a mixture of emotions, she looked pained as her face weakly attempted a smile.

“It’s so lovely to see you. I brought you these flowers!”

I held them in front of her face and then pulled the wilting sun hat over her head.

“You should smell those flowers, they are incredible.”

Bjorn was still scanning the area passively with an eye toward us. I moved in his direction with Monica in tow. The woman who Bjorn had spoken to earlier was just ahead, her bright gold eyes were held just slightly too wide, giving her a manic sort of look. I felt a chill as they locked on to mine. She moved to engage. I smiled and nodded to her, then moved past her ignoring her advance.

After all, I was in love with this woman. We had places to be. And we needed a cab.

“Taxi!”

Bjorn was immediately in the cab, motor running and swinging around the roundabout. The woman had wandered back to the crosswalk and was now blocking Bjorn’s approach, seeming to be oblivious. I could see Bjorn smiling through grit teeth. Once the roundabout cleared, Bjorn was a cabby again, holding the door for a couple about town. Monica was first and I entered into the rear passenger door.

A shout got my attention. A man was running full tilt from the graveyard. His face was twisted with fury. He reached into his jacket and produced a revolver. Just as Bjorn pulled his door shut, the glass burst and there was a wet thud. Bjorn let out a pained grunt. Monica began to chant and gesture. I clenched my teeth. While sworn to protect her, the use of magic in close proximity always set me on edge. Blanka continually flaunted it and, while I hadn’t been the subject of her spells, I was never quite sure when that day would come. Or, more importantly, how badly I would react when it did. Scintillating lights reflected around the cab as the sunset’s rays reflected off of the glass shards. They spat out of the car, lancing at the assailant. The furious man reflexively spun a shoulder toward the shimmering projectiles. His pistol was gone, quickly replaced by a metal studded bat. This barely slowed his pursuit as he nearly reached the door just as Bjorn pulled away.

Monica began to chant again.

“Tell her ta stop or I swear I’ll send her tru da fuckin’ windshield…” Bjorn shouted to the back.

 I quickly put one hand up to her and gently pushed her hands to her lap.

“Not here. Not now.”

She looked both surprised and disappointed, but ultimately complied with the request.

I could see Bjorn gripping the steering wheel tightly, his face strained. He let out a low “aaaugh” as he appeared to succeed in his fight against the pain. I wondered if the bullet that hit him was any danger to him and, subsequently, to us.

“They are getting into another car.” Monica shouted

“I’ve got dis,” Bjorn was unaffected, his eyes locked on the road ahead, “Best hold on ta somethin’.”

“About a block behind us,” I said, “Miss, can I have you scoot forward.”

I rolled the seat back, grappled the stowed shotgun and tugged it free of the clamps. I set it on the floor. Monica wasn’t just shocked, she was horrified. While I saw this as far cleaner than using magic, I could see that she clearly didn’t.

I dug in and flipped open the ammo box and counted out three grenades. The first two, I put in Monica’s hands and took one myself. I closed up the box. Monica was still looking at the devices in her hands as I rolled the seat back into place.

“Careful. They’re grenades.”

Her eyes widened.

“Only if things get out of control,” I said, then turned to Bjorn, “It looks like they’re about two hundred meters behind.”

Bjorn shouted behind, “If you’d oblige and put the first round from the shotgun into the lass.”

I raised an eyebrow and glanced at the rearview mirror. He seemed perfectly serious.

“Salt load. Works great on demons.”

Monica’s expression was priceless, daintily holding two grenades as far from her as possible.

I racked the shotgun, sending the salt load to the floor.

“Any buckshot or slugs?”

“Next load is silver scattershot.”

“Damn. You did come prepared.”

Bjorn responded by weaving quickly into oncoming traffic. I threw myself back in the seat and grabbed for the handle above the window. Monica was still stuck with two grenades in her hands.

We bounced back into the lane. Bjorn had deftly avoided a small cluster of cars trying to park. His focus was uncanny. I swear I could see him channelling his berserker ancestry as he maneuvered through the battlefield ahead. It was clear that he had both hands on his weapon of choice. 

Monica finally found a pocket in the back of the seat to stow the grenades. She shook her hands anxiously as if they’d been too hot to hold.

I glanced behind us, but failed to pick out the pursuers. Monica glanced at me with a question, then called forward.

“They’re still behind us!”

“Dis may get rough,” Bjorn said evenly.

At this point, he seemed to be looking for trouble. He glanced down a street and saw another cluster of cars and wrenched the steering wheel in that direction.

This time, oncoming traffic was coming at speed. Bjorn gunned it, sending the car squealing forward.

I grimaced as I saw him charging the narrow empty space. I pressed a knee against the seat in front of me and gripped the handle above the window again. I watched Monica grappling around frantically, attempting to brace herself as well. I caught myself grinning.

She caught sight and immediately scowled.

Bjorn thought better of the narrow gap, and jumped directly to the sidewalk. A wrought iron table spun away on contact. Patrons to the coffee shop we brushed past stared wide eyed. A few stepped forward as our pursuers decided to take the same route. One patron stepped out a little too far and caught the edge of their vehicle. It spun him around, sending him to the ground. Monica put a shocked hand to her mouth.

“He’ll live. I’m pretty sure.” I called forward, “They’re still on us.”

Bjorn grumbled.

The car jerked in response, he used the wet streets to glide cleanly down a new path. We were now on a road with the ancient jumbled paver stones. We rattled away in the back. He’d taken the difficulty up a notch for one last hurrah.

I didn’t look at Ms. Granger for fear of what she’d read in my expression. I didn’t quite expect us to survive whatever may come next.

They careened into the same path, still well behind us. Bjorn fired up the engine, the vehicle’s frame was shifting and rattling with the effort. He bore down a straightaway with parked bicycles, trashcans, and wet paper bags. People were on bikes in the center lane, but Bjorn’s persistent pounding on a squeaky horn sent them scattering. He weaved tightly through the channel, avoiding the parked bicycles, but, conversely, leaned into tearing up trash and scattering it over the path. I felt a tickle of vertigo as Bjorn repeatedly balanced the car on two wheels.

I held my breath for the whole length, hoping the effort to make myself small would help. As we emerged on the other side. Both Monica and I spun back. The pursuers, within the first few moments, caught one of the bicycle tires pulling the vehicle deeper into the pile, the vehicle launched over the pile into a brick-walled storefront. The vehicle’s windshield flopped forward and slid forward over the hood from the force of the impact.

I whooped at the sight while Monica cheered. I turned front to slap Bjorn on the shoulder, but then thought better of it. Bjorn didn’t necessarily join in, but he sat a little straighter in his seat in recognition of what he’d just done.

“We’re not out yet. Keep yer panties on, you two.”

“After that masterful handling, if they don’t offer you a long term contract after reading my report, I’ll fire myself as a writer.”

Bjorn maintained speed. Entering the highway and putting considerable distance between us and our pursuers.

We were well on our way when Bjorn exited the highway again. I looked up at the mirror with a question and saw a look that implied unfinished business. We wandered down some rural roads for a moment. Monica seemed unaware that this wasn’t part of the plan. She pensively watched the passing pastoral scenery.

He pulled off the road and the auto shook as he pulled himself out of the cabin. He opened her door and I leaned forward.

“We need to talk.”

She was frazzled and immediately on the defensive. Exactly as I would have been if I were in her shoes.

“Ya never play wit my head. I heard ya whisperin’ an’ tugging at my mind.” Bjorn towered over her.

“I did not.”

She spoke softly at first, then more emphatically.

“I did not! I sent those shards of glass! I defended us!”

The earlier motion of Bjorn seeming to wrest free of some power trying to control him now made much more sense. Possibly the woman with crazy eyes. I had no idea how I’d have fared if she had turned that on me.

Monica became indignant. Standing up to Bjorn who pushed his chest forward, but his hands did not find a resting place.

“You know this? You know I didn’t do it!” She looked back toward me, her eyes pleading.

“Just hear him out. We are not going to harm you. We are taking you to safety.”

I leaned forward to make eye contact with Bjorn after she turned back to face him. Trying to get a read on him and make sure that he understood this as well. I retreated, flipping up the seat and taking time to return the shell to the shotgun and replace it under the seat. Then I gathered the grenades and tucked them back into the ammo box.

“Dere will be no magic in my cab. And ya will never do magic touching my mind. Got it?”

She was indignant at first, still intent on expressing her innocence, but then she nodded with a cowed expression, looking to the floor. It was hard to know if this was just an act of complicity to move past this or if she genuinely didn’t mean to tread.

I could see the bullet hole from the gunshot. Blood had clearly soaked through the full length sleeve he wore. I grimaced at how painful that must be. He, however, showed no signs acknowledging the wound. It had stopped bleeding, at least.

After Bjorn had said his peace, the tension in the cab was high for the next couple of kilometers while he meandered through until the next entrance to the highway appeared ahead. They exchanged steely glances in the rearview mirror for a moment until I’d had enough of it myself.

“This is yours Ms. Granger.”

I pulled the papers from my inner pocket, unrolled them, and handed them to her.

“You are Mila Aleksander. You are Burgundian.”

“No I’m not!”

She was new to this, I had to remind myself.

“For the next two hundred kilometers, yes you are. You are my fiance.”

She looked incredulous again. I raised my hands in a gesture for her to hear me out.

“You need to play the part so we can get past the border guard. You choose how this will play out, and I’ll follow your lead. But you’re the most important part of this.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You are clearly not Burgundian. As soon as you open your mouth, there will be questions. Your grasp of Burgundian is wonderful, but the accent is a giveaway.”

I tapped the paper to draw her attention to the words again.

“You are Mila Aleksander. Say it with me.”

“Meeya.”

“No. Mila. Let’s practice. This is the one thing we need to get absolutely right. Once you’re comfortable with that, we can work on other words and phrases if you’d like. But, for now, lets keep it simple.”

She looked shaken, but she started practicing and I intoned along with her until she hit the inflections exactly. I nodded at her with a smile. She held the papers close, absorbing the information.

“This should be no effort for you. You, apparently, are a quick study.”

She looked bewildered at first, then recognition. There was a fleeting look of pride which she quickly masked.

“Not many people can pick up a book of magic and make something of it.”

“For five years I studied.”

“Impressive, really.” I nodded, “But you got caught. How?”

She turned inward. Either sheepish or embarrassed.

“I don’t want to speak on this.”

I nodded. The question prompting introspection was intentional. After all, everyone needs to know of their own limitations. It’s not a spiteful thing, just a self check. It’s important to be self-aware enough to question your path before you tread too confidently right off of a cliff.

“Keep working on this. We need this to succeed.”

Bjorn leaned back.

“If story time is over, we need clothes. Dis blood is a dead giveaway. We need to find somewhere big enough ta have a shop dats still open.”

“I can run in if you find one. I have the cash.”

I patted at the swollen wad of Lyra in my coat pocket.

Bjorn set off in search of a clothier. Clovia, especially this far from city centers, was little more than a string of dairy farms and fields. With the citizenry squelched by a monarch’s reign, there was little chance for much change while Clovia’s rulers were still sitting on high.

The sun had finally dropped beyond the mountains and darkness came in. The sky had long since shed its clouds and was open to a starry night sky. The moon hadn’t quite joined in. Bjorn had weaved through towns, growing increasingly agitated as we came closer to the border. Monica was dutifully mouthing her pseudonym over and over, but she seemed to also be listening, too. She put no breath behind it so it was impossible to know what our how she was doing.

On one main street of a more populated town, it was clear that a textile mill was the central fixture. Adjoining the mill was a clothing outlet. The lights had just clicked off and a man stood outside, wriggling keys in the lock.

I leaned forward between the seats looking up the steps to the storefront. Bjorn gave me a shooing motion, annoyed at my proximity.

“Here, I’ll talk to him.”

I bounded out of the car.

“Sir! Sir! If I may, I was hoping I could quickly peruse your shop before you close up?”

The man’s eyes widened immediately as I approached. He was an older gentleman, and I stood nearly a head taller than him. His left eyelid began to twitch erratically.

“I… I was just closing up.” He was Clovian, but his Gualish accent was less pronounced as he spoke Burgundian.

“I will absolutely make it worth your while.”

I flashed the wad of Lyra, which didn’t appear to entice him at all.

“Please. I wanted to buy my woman a gift before we depart Clovia.”

He could tell I had no intention of leaving. I counted fifty Lyra and put it in his pocket.

“There is more where that came from. Eat a good meal. Buy a crate of your favorite spirits. Celebrate!”

His hand shook as he pushed the key back into the lock and wriggled it open. On the inside, he raised large block switches and large overhead lights turned on.

I started in on my requests and he gingerly pointed to each item I requested. I found something that I hoped would fit Bjorn: a hulking navy blue jacket with a matching grey wool turtleneck. Monica was a more demure sort. I picked out a fashionable light-gray long coat, a black felted hat with a wide wired rim, and matching black leather gloves.

I guessed at all of the measurements, factoring that a size bigger would be more acceptable than otherwise.

I tossed all the items on the counter and the man looked bemused. It was hard to know if he thought I might still rob him. I watched as he wrote out each receipt and noted it.

“Keep in mind, the deeper the discount, the better your tip. I’ll still pay full price.”

I must have startled him when I spoke. He breathed deeply, staying very focused on the task at hand. He lined out an illegible scribble and started on a new line. I recognized that he was under duress and waited patiently for him to finish.

He handed me the receipt showing eighty Lyra. I counted out one hundred and sixty and laid it on the counter. I gathered the boxes and moved outside. As the door was nearly closed, I heard the man drop into the worn leather chair that sat behind the counter and let out a long sigh.

As the door clicked shut behind me and I made toward the cab with a smile. I piled the boxes into the vehicle and we set off.

“He’s not goin’ ta remember us at all is he?” Bjorn’s voice had an edge of contempt to it.

“I don’t care.” I said with a grin, “We’ll be over the border before he tells anyone about it.”

Some distance down the road, we stopped to change. Using a bare streetlight, we rifled through the boxes. Bjorn shrugged into the coat with a pained grimace. It seemed to fit well enough. Monica had seemed smaller than she appeared. The coat fit more snugly than expected, but it definitely worked for her.

As she looked at her reflection in the rear window, she pulled it tight and marveled at the cut. Then she began to look uncomfortable. She shook her head and started to tug at sleeves to remove the coat.

“Doesn’t it fit? It looked fine.”

“Yes. But. I … it is too much.”

“Explain ‘too much’?”

“It is not meant for me.”

Then it dawned on me. She was a scullery maid. For years, this was all she knew and she was little more than a slave. These were the finest things she’d have ever owned. Her eyes glittered with desire, but she was also repelled by it. It was a bewildering sort of challenge.

Before she could wrangle the coat from her arms, I took the black leather gloves from a box.

“Here, try these on.”

She paused. I pulled the long coat back in place. I took her left hand. They were rough, calloused, used to work. While I hadn’t considered it earlier, she wouldn’t have the dainty smooth hands of a noble. I was glad that I had sized up. I pulled the cuff up her wrist and slid them in place. She stared at them, opening and closing her hand, listening to the creak of leather as she did.

“Is she havin’ a moment dere?”

“It’s what happens when you buy a woman pretty things. They’re speechless.”

She glanced up, squinting at me, looking mildly insulted.

“I can talk.”

“It’s a turn of phrase.” I smiled at her again, “Let’s put it all together. You need to be able to own this. This is yours. This is now you.”

Her eyes shimmered as I put on the other glove and then rested the felt hat on her head. I placed it at a slight angle, creating a sharp shadow over her cheek, lips, and chin from the streetlight.

“See? Stunning.”

“Are ya done, now?”

Bjorn was leaning out the broken window, tapping on the side of his door. His impatience reminded me of a snorting bull pawing at the ground. It was best to get into the cab before his charge left us in the dust.

We navigated the darkened streets, meandering back to the highway. We passed signs showing we were within a few kilometers of the border now. I glanced at Monica.

“How do you want to play this?”

She didn’t respond verbally, she just turned to me and narrowed her eyes.

“Hah! I’ll try not to take it personally.”

She held the expression, glaring forward. Papers clutched in her hands. I donned my role as the lovelorn buffoon. Pining at the window; rejected.

Bjorn easily slid forward into the checkpoint, his arm positioned over the seam of the broken window on approach. Dour faced Clovian guards held an open hand out and Bjorn obliged.

“Papers.”

Bjorn’s arm remained in place, with papers ready in his other hand. The first guard did a silent signal to the other and the inspection began.

“What was your business in Clovia?”

“Pickin’ up dese two,” he coughed lightly, “Lovebirds.”

Bjorn’s voice dropped as he spoke and the conversation remained between the two of them. I’m sure there were a few eyerolls and head shaking moments they exchanged.

Monica sat straight-backed, seething, sitting as far from me as possible. Perhaps she was taking this all too seriously? She seemed to have a well of rage she could readily tap. She spent a lot of years being looked down upon. She looked elegant in her new hat and coat, but I wasn’t quite sure if I may have created a monster in the process. How she staged her performance would be just a nudge in the right direction.

The second guard knocked on her window. She rolled down the window vigorously and thrust the papers out. The guard was put off, aggravated by her aggravation, he pulled the papers from her hands and looked them over.

“What is your name?”

I tensed for her response.

“Mila Aleksander.” She said through clenched teeth, with a flawless Burgundian accent.

I kept the satisfied smile I was feeling to myself.

Monica then grabbed the bundle of flowers that laid on the seat between us and tossed them out the window with a cry followed shortly by the small box of chocolates. She grabbed the door handle and pressed out into the night air. I could see her heaving, one hand on her face, recovering. Then she turned back to the cab and leaned into the window. 

“It’s off!” She said, biting down on the words fiercely.

She still maintained the Burgundian accent.

The second guard alongside her had taken a step back, the hand with her papers was held up, and the other was fumbling for his weapon. The first guard rapped sharply on the roof, getting the second’s attention and I could imagine the wordless exchange over the roof.

The second guard regained his composure. His hand dropped to his revolver, but only to perch on the hilt.

“Madame! Get back in the vehicle.”

She paused, exhaling.

“Now!”

She grappled with the door and rocked the car as she dropped heavily in her seat. The warmth of her fury spread back into the cab.

He asked some questions, but her curt monosyllabic responses masked any accent that might have slipped into her words.

The guard offered her papers back to her through the window and she snatched them back. There was some gesticulating I could see through the windows between the guards. Bjorn had his free hand to his face, shaking his head as he looked up the first guard.

It was my turn. There was a tap at my window, I sluggishly rolled the window down.

“Papers...”

I had my papers out the window before he finished the word.

“What is your name?”

“Bani Elkind.”

“What was the nature of your visit?”

“To meet my,” I paused briefly, “fiance and we are returning home to Burgundia.”

“Do you have anything to declare?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Hope you find a warm place to sleep, Monsieur.”

The young guard said it with a half smile tipping his lips. He held the paper toward me. I snatched them from him, and he dropped his hand to his revolver more quickly this time and thrust out a stern finger.

I glared at him and he returned the gaze with his lips pursed in a mocking gesture.

The first guard spent a little more time perusing the vehicle. His breath was clearly visible in the night air. I held my breath. It was a few moments before he seemed satisfied and waved Bjorn through, who put the vehicle into gear and accelerated through. I looked back briefly, and I saw at least one of the guards laughing at the empty border stop. If they only knew that the joke was on them.

Bjorn turned his head back toward us in the stretch between checkpoints.

“No theatrics on this stop, eh?”

The guards on the Burgundian side took our names again, and welcomed us home. Shortly after that we were back up to full speed on the highway. Moving back to Neuchatel.

The cold wind from the window made it hard to speak in the car, but we were content to sit in silence until we returned to the safe house.

We pulled up and I saw the rag Bjorn had placed still tied to the lightpost. I stepped out, and moved around to open the door for her.

“Stay safe.” Bjorn said to her.

She nodded in response.

I led her to the front door and gave the coded knock. Moments later, an older couple greeted us.

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Bani.”

The grandmotherly woman’s voice was kind and she smiled wholesomely, but did not move to engage.

“Mila, come on in. Bani, I hope you have a place to stay. You know you can’t stay before you are married.”

“I understand.”

“And here is a note for you.”

He handed an envelope with the wax stamp of Nachtrichter. Official communication.

Monica moved toward the door, turned back and smiled at Bjorn, who gave a slight nod in response. She turned to me and gripped both of my hands in her black leather gloves. Her eyes spoke volumes, but all she said was, “Thank you.”

Her accent was back, I’d nearly forgotten about it since we approached the border.

I smiled and nodded to the elderly man and woman at the door, and turned on my heel toward the cab.

I climbed into the front seat this time then turned to Bjorn.

“Want a drink? I’ll buy.”