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“Here we are,” the burly guard, who had now been identified as Sven Yate, stated. He had been towing Jacques along by the shoulder since they had left the boardroom, walking through main street of the town and waltzing past the docks. The ships bobbed and the waves danced under the beaming sun as sailors scurried off of their vessels to run into the welcoming arms of their loved ones. Wives broke down into joyous tears, smothering their men in joyous kisses. Parents and grandparents had put down their fruit baskets and sewing needles long enough to rush to the bay and gather up their sons and grandsons in a loving embrace.
And then there were the children. Many of which who haven’t seen their fathers since birth, and were now slowly blossoming into their first steps. The kids were the first in the families to rush into their arms, some of them still losing teeth, and the others racing to show their fathers their new spouse-to-be.
Everyone seemed so happy, vibrant waves of joy seeming to emit from every grin, eye twinkle, laugh, kiss, and hug. But then there were the not so enthusiastic, the family members who stood far off in the back of the crowd, frowning and weeping. The families who did not get the pleasure of welcoming back their beloved; they who saw nothing but a gray haze around them, not a single soul around seemed to exist in their minds. For these people had lost their kin to a sword, bullet, or possibly even the ferocious sea herself.
Jacques marched past them, eyeing everyone with interest. If he were to go out to sea and not return for a couple of months, nay years, would he be welcomed back just as warmly? He pondered this thought as he was guided past the marketplace.
Delectable fruits were displayed in bunches under shady coverings, rice grains were packed together in small baskets, and corn cobs hung like decor. The front door to the bakery shop was slightly ajar, but even through that small crack, the strongest of scents loomed high in the air, teasing those who could not afford such fine breads, and luring in those who could. Jacques inhaled the scents as he sauntered by; the sweet pastries and raw dough filled his lungs and begged him to take a peek inside, but he ignored it and kept his feet moving straight ahead.
They turned a corner beside a broken down warehouse and kept walking until they had made it to their destination: Lord Weizenhower’s office. The three of them stopped before the huge building, gazing up at it, “So this is it?” Jacques asked, not taking his eyes off of the three vine entwined balconies.
Sven nodded and pulled him up the stairs. The iron doors were locked, the glass behind it stained; Sven knocked twice before they were finally let in by an admiral. He and the two guards shared a greeting nod and Jacques was tugged inside by Sven. They spiraled up the stairs and wove through many halls; Jacques sighed, “Not to sound rude or anything, but I must ask. Are we there yet? My feet are beginning to hurt. It took us a year to get from the king’s palace to the front door of this building, now it’s taking us a year to get from the front door of this building to the office, and I wonder. Will it take a year for me to make it from his office door to his desk?”
Sven growled and pulled against Jacques’ arm, signaling that he should shut his mouth, “Sorry,” he muttered.
Finally, they made it to two wooden double doors, two other guards standing on post at either side. Sven spoke up, “Jacques Ambler,”. One of the two men nodded an opened one of the doors to allow Jacques in. Sven used his keys to unlock Jacques’ irons and allowed him to enter the room alone; the doors were closed behind him.
As soon as Jacques stepped in, he was in awe at the finery of the Lord’s office. The walls were painted a deep tan, the desk was polished and scattered with maps and other papers, the floors were a solid wood, no squeaking when you step, there were shelves and shelves of books stacked on a far bookcase, two velvet cushioned chairs sat across from the desk, and the air smelled of old leather and a wine.
“Please, take a seat,” demanded the voice of the man who sat behind the old desk; he didn’t look to be any older than his late thirties early forties. In one hand he steadily held a steaming cup of tea, and in the other, he held a piece of paper and scanned it with his eyes. Jacques quietly took a seat in one of the two velvet chairs, waiting for his loud lecture and hind spanking like the child who broke the vase and hid the pieces under the floorboards.
A persistent silence hung between them.
Finally, Lord Weizenhower placed the paper down and took in Jacques’ appearance before speaking, “Do you know why you are here, Mr. Ambler?”
Jacques furrowed his eyebrows, “I... think so?” he replied, “I’m thinking it has to do with something I said to some woman; they can be such lambs these days.” He joked; Weizenhower did not smile, “Sorry. But, no, I do not know why I’m here.”
Lord Weizenhower took a sip of his tea and picked up his white sheet of paper again, “According to the records I received, you have been charged with theft and murder.”
Jacques’ eyes bulged, “Theft and murder?” he cried, “I haven’t stolen a single thing in my life and I’ve yet to put my cutlass to anyone’s throat.”
“‘Twasn’t murder by weaponry, but by poison and neglect,” Weizenhower spoke calmly.
Jacques cocked an eyebrow, “Oh? Well, then, who have I ‘robbed’ and ‘killed’?”
Lord sighed, “A woman by the name of Gracleyn Elissa Turner. Ringing any bells?”
Jacques shook his head, “None.”
“Do you know a woman named Gracelyn? Possibly goes by Grace, Lyn, or Lynny?”
Ambler jolted, “I know a Lynny, but her name was not derived from Gracelyn. Her name’s Gwendolyn.”
Weizenhower sighed again, “I see. Well, alright, I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you are to answer them with accuracy.”
Jacques nodded, “Aye.”
“To start”, Lord stated, “Where were you last Wednesday afternoon?”
“At home, constructing a new piece.” Jacques responded.
Weizenhower continued with, “Between what times?”
“Three to around four thirty.”
“What for?”
“I have combined a chamber orchestra, and we were just working on a new song to perform whenever we got a chance.”
“Your last performance?”
“Duke Tarron, but we were suppose to be getting ready to play for the king, queen, emperor, and empress.”
“When was your performance for Duke Tarron?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Weizenhower tapped his chin with his index finger, “I see.”
Jacques grinned triumphantly. He was off the hook! Lord snapped his fingers, “Er... Cane!”
The doors to the office bursted open and in came one of the Lieutenants, that were standing on guard, entered the room, “Yes, Sir?”
Weizenhower nodded to Jacques, “Take him away; he is to spend the night imprisoned until we can get some more information.”
“What?” Jacques cried, his grin dropping to a look or horror, “I didn’t do anything! I don’t even know this Grace woman! Who told you this?” The irons were locked around his wrist and he was pulled up to a standing position, “Who gave you this information?” he yelled as Cane pulled him away. The last thing he saw before the door was shut in his face, was Lord Weizenhower taking yet another sip of his tea and pouring over his maps.
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“So? Come on! How does it feel to finally be getting married?” Catherine cried enthusiastically as she brushed her friend’s soft curls. She ran her fingers through her silken blonde hair with her fingers like a comb, admiring it’s texture.
Bernadette sat at her vanity and played with her lips, using her fingers to form her lips into smiles and frowns, “I’ll let you know once the knots in my stomach are loosened up.”
“Aww,” Catherine cooed. She removed her fingers from Bernadette’s hair and bent over to hug her shoulders, “My poor Berna.”
Berna smiled softly and moved her hand back to rest on the side of Catherine’s left cheek; she whispered, “I’m so excited, Cat, he’s so perfect.”
Catherine snorted with a smile and retorted, “He’s my brother! He better be perfect! I’ve had to beat what little sense he has now into him when we were younger.”
Bernadette laughed and patted Catherine’s cheek, “Yes yes.”
Cat jerked up and let go of Bernadette’s shoulders so that she was standing again, “Your dress! You still have not been fitted for your dress!”
Berna gasped, “You’re right.”
“Come,” Cat said, pulling Berna up, “I know the best place.” She grasped her hand and ran out of the room, Berna running at her heels. She sighed dreamily in her mind as she and Cat raced from the house.
‘Just think about it Berna,’ she thought excitedly to herself, ‘In just a few more days, you will be known as Mrs. Bernadette-Ambler Tarette!’
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