What Feasts at Night (Sworn Soldier, #2)

by T. Kingfisher

“I didn’t force you to come,” he said. “You blackmailed me.” “I most certainly did not.” “There was guilt. I distinctly remember guilt being involved.”

Paris, when we left, had been in full glory. Much is made of springtime there, but for my money, a warm autumn is just as spectacular and you don’t trip over nearly as many poets.

I’m keeping is what we say in Gallacia to any such inquiry, and it covers such a broad range as to convey no information whatsoever. It can mean “I am filled with unspeakable joy, my gout is cured, and angels attend my every step,” or it can mean “a bear just ripped my leg off and I am, at this moment, bleeding out, but please don’t make a fuss.” Either way, you’re keeping.

Nevertheless, I do not believe that God cares where you worship Har. The prayers of the dying on the mud of the battlefield and the pleas of the fearful hiding in cellars must surely ascend just as quickly as those uttered under the light of stained glass. More quickly, if there is justice in the universe.

I sometimes think the fundamental disconnect with civilians is that they think a war is an event, something neatly bounded on either end by dates. What anyone who’s lived through one can tell you is that it’s actually a place. You’re there and then you leave, but places don’t stop existing just because you aren’t looking at them.

“Are you saying that you believe in ghosts?” I raised my eyebrows. Despite my personal view on the existence of ghosts, I had expected Miss Potter to be far more skeptical. “But you’re a scientist.” “I am a mycologist, Lieutenant.” She tapped my shin with her umbrella. “My intimate knowledge of fungi does not translate to a knowledge of spiritualism or souls or life after death. I loathe people who assume that because they are an expert in one field, they are therefore infallible on a totally unrelated topic, merely because they gave it five minutes of thought.”

“Blessed Virgin,” I whispered, even though I couldn’t even hear myself. “Why must you keep sending me innocent monsters?”

They tell you that everything gets dark at the end, but it went white instead, the color of snow falling outside a window, and all I had to do was sit and watch it fall, forever.

“At any rate, I decided that on balance one should err on the side of mercy, and buried her in the churchyard. My superiors may send me nasty letters or not, as they choose.” “May we always have the choice to err on the side of mercy,” I said, lifting my wine.

I asked Twitter what kind of gun Alex would have, and people fell out of the woodwork to discuss the matter and send me helpful pointers. Thank you all very much for that—the two groups who will always spot the details are the gun people and the textile people, and while I fear the textile people somewhat more, I like to stay on the right side of both of them.

While Gallacia is a fictional place in the Ruritanian tradition, Alex’s war is a very real one, the Serbian–Bulgarian War of 1885. Probably most wars are confusing for the people on the ground, but this particular one was even more baffling and badly run than most. I can’t possibly do it justice in a paragraph, but it’s worth reading about if you ever want an object lesson in how not to invade Bulgaria. (Please do not invade Bulgaria under any circumstances.)

She swatted clumsily at me with a duffel bag. “Pff! Thank you, no. All the single men my age want either a trophy wife or a housekeeper, and I’m not doing either.” “Awwwright,” I drawled. “Two sexy single ladies living the fabulous single lifestyle, then.” Mom gave me a droll look. “So … boxed wine and binging British crime shows?” “It’s like we’re related or something.”