It’s been unusually quiet since Archer moved down to the village, only a merchant family, regular visitors and well-known to Her Majesty, so I’ll not spend the time or ink until they have a story to share.

They did give my direction to my latest visitor though. She encountered them near the head of the pass and shared their campfire for a night. In merchant terms, that makes them near as kin till the end of their journey. A strange boundary, given they’re on different journeys, but binding nonetheless.

Beatrice, as she introduced herself, arrived shortly after the sun had chased the morning chill from the air. She’d either camped close or been up before full light to get to me so early.

Her pretty white mare was glad to find rest and food in my stable, so I’m inclined to think it was the latter.

There was a strange air around her – Beatrice I mean, not the horse – not unlike that of an animal that’s just escaped the predator’s teeth, but isn’t sure whether the respite is real, or merely a lull, until their scent is found again.

I daresay you think I’m being fanciful, but her story proved my impression. You can just wait for it though; patience is a virtue to be cultivated.

She looked tired, but refused to rest, insisting on helping me with my garden chores, which gave her a convenient view of the road, while providing foliage to hide behind. Which is precisely what she did when the clop of horse’s hooves approached.

They came from downhill though, and resolved into Archer, delivering my mended laundry tub. The blasted thing had sprung a leak in the middle of last laundry day and I had to finish off the linens in an old stew pot.

He spotted my new guest, no way he couldn’t from the path he took to the washing area and back. He gave no sign of having seen her though, probably felt, as I did, from her pale skin and panting breaths, that she’d bolt like a rabbit if he so much as glanced in her direction.

I invited him in to collect a pot of honey I’d promised his Craftmaster’s wife and give him a chance to share whatever it was he wanted to say, away from my jumpy visitor.

As I rummaged through the pantry for the promised item, he glanced over his shoulder then leaned forward, murmuring. “Why is someone uncannily like to the supposedly dead princess of Grimbourne hiding behind your redcurrant bush?”

Well now, did that get your attention? It sure and certain got mine.

I handed Archer the pot of honey and replied. “My guest is my guest, her past and future are none of my business.”

That got me a raised brow and a smirk, I pretended to swat at him as we left the house. “Get on with you, cheeky lad. I’ll be having a word with that lady of yours, you used to have better manners.”

Archer flushed clear to the top of his ears. “She’s just… we’re not…”

I snorted. “She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, and the happier for it. Now dig yourself out a bit of gold for a ring and make her the happiest lass in the village.”

He was still redder than my tomatoes, but his smile was like none I’d ever before seen on the man. “I will.”

“Say that to her, not me.”

I waved him off, still chuckling, then went back to the red currants. “He’s gone.”

Beatrice stood, still pale. “He was a guard at… a place I used to be. He recognised me.”

“He thought you looked like someone he’d come across before but that she was dead.”

“Not dead enough.” It was muttered but still clear.

“You can tell me about it over dinner this evening. Until then, I’m out of honey and need to discuss the situation with my bees.”

If she chose to run, then that would be her choice. I host only those wishing to stay with me, for only as long as they wish to remain. Thankfully, she stayed.

We retired to my fireside armchairs after dinner and I asked. “How did Princess Orlaith die?”

“You know?”

“I know the names of the Grimbourne royal family and she sounds like the only one of an age with you.”

Beatrice wrapped both hands around her mug of warmed cider and said. “I drowned.”

“And yet here you are, not only breathing but decidedly not waterlogged.” That earned me a brief smile.

“I learned to swim in secret. But they never found my body, just my overdress. My parents declared me gone, held a funeral, and renegotiated my alliance marriage, but someone is still looking for me.”

“Who?”

She shrugged, staring in the fire as if it might know. “My eldest brother? He would act on the slimmest of evidence, just to spite me. Or my former betrothed. His new bride is considerably lower in status than me, a second cousin rather than one of my sisters, and her dowry is a fraction of what mine would have been.”

“Or it could be your father’s spymaster, she’s always been too curious for her own good.”

“What?”

“You don’t think it could be her?”

“I didn’t know he had a spymaster, let alone that it was a woman. He thinks women are frail and frivolous.”

“I think you’ll find he just says that to irritate people. No one married to your mother could honestly believe it.”

“How do you know all this?”

So I took her through a little of my background, you already know it and I’m not interested in repeating old news. Suffice to say, she decided I was a safe confidante, and a possible source of useful advice.

Incidentally, we dismissed the spymaster as her potential shadow quite quickly. Turns out Lady Shadwell was not only her swimming instructor, but also helped set up the drowning incident.

We talked long into the night, and while I would have preferred another evening of discussion to fully round out her plans, I understand why she left after breakfast the next day.

At least she had a clear destination and plan after our conversation, so I do hope you take good care of my latest courier and ensure she is given proper training and support in becoming an archivist like yourself. She is well suited to the task.

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