A Woman Named 'Ellis'

Interlude - Assignment Orders and Kitchen Wit

The dining room had become an unlikely war room.

The long oak table was cleared of its usual dinnerware and now held a half-spread folder, a scattering of marked-up schedules and Maria pacing at its head like the floor itself might crack beneath her if she stopped. The late afternoon sun caught in the glass of a half-empty teacup, untouched.

"I want Marckus reassigned, permanently, as Head of Assembly Security," Maria said, jabbing a finger toward the file. "Sweep checks every day. Verified entry and exit routes. Every single Assemblymark accounted for before session begins and after it ends. No exceptions."

Fausta sat at the far end, one leg crossed over the other, her posture as regal as ever despite the bandage still faintly visible beneath the cuff of her sleeve. She blew out a slow breath and leaned back in her chair.

"Maria," she said, "I don't need three guards trailing me like ceremonial pigeons. I'm not a relic in a museum."

"Well, you were treated like one," Madoc muttered, not bothering to look up from where he lounged with a mug in hand.

Fausta turned her head toward him, arching one brow. "Excuse me?"

"You were stolen," he said plainly, "like a priceless relic. Therefore, security is non-negotiable."

From the nearby kitchen came the sounds of spoons clinking and something aromatic simmering. Tomato, maybe. The smell of garlic drifted out like a bribe.

"I think," came Mireille's voice, crisp and teasing, "that if Fausta didn't want three guards, she probably shouldn't have gotten herself kidnapped last time."

A pause.

Madoc was the first to snort into his mug.

Maria pressed her lips together, trying, and failing, not to smirk.

Fausta blinked slowly, as if reevaluating her choices. "It's good to know the Spouse of the Chancellor has taken up dry comedy."

"It's either that or scream," Mireille called back. "And I've already done that once this season."

A knock came at the open doorway. Marckus entered with a raised brow and a hint of amusement.

"Did someone mention pigeons and guards?"

Maria lifted the folder and handed it to him. "Congratulations. You're now Head of Assembly Security. Effective immediately."

He flipped through the file with quick, military precision. Then looked to Fausta.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'll make the guards invisible. You won't even know they're there."

Fausta gave him a dry look. "Good. Then maybe I'll only have to suffer the idea of surveillance instead of the actual presence."

"And they'll all be personally vetted," Marckus added, with a nod to Maria. "No more moles. I've had enough of digging."

From the kitchen, "Just make sure none of them try to flirt with her, please."

Maria turned sharply toward the doorway, eyes narrowing with mock offense. "You know," she said, "most people use knives in the kitchen. You just use your tongue."

Mireille popped her head around the corner, apron tied snug, hair pinned up. "Saves on cleanup."

Fausta let out a soft laugh, the kind that slipped past her defenses before she could catch it. Madoc raised his mug like a toast.

"Domestic stability," he said. "Almost as comforting as armed patrols."

Maria shook her head, but the crease in her brow had faded. "Back to the file, please."

Fausta sat a little straighter. "Fine. But if one of your invisible guards trips over his own feet during a speech, I'm naming him Pigeon One."

Mireille raised a wooden spoon in salute. "Dinner in twenty. No politics at the table unless it's about seasoning."

The Republic's shadows hadn't vanished, but for one hour, the dining room was warm with firelight and friendly barbs, and that was enough.