The captain's tent resembled the tightly packed burrow of a very meticulous mole. A chest of belongings had been pushed into the corner, the bed was neatly made — down to a perfectly smooth wool blanket — and a stack of carefully sorted papers lay on the folding table. Near the portable stove, a pair of black boots were drying. On the sealed lid of a wooden barrel rested a revolver, disassembled for cleaning and wrapped in a velvet cloth.
I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that instead of sleeping in a warm room on soft featherbeds, this man preferred to sleep at a desk in the barracks. Or in his office at the department.
"It's obvious this is your tent, Captain," I said, pausing at the entrance.
Oberon was rummaging through a leather bag, but at my words, he stopped and turned to me with his usual neutral expression.
"You mean the neatness?"
"Yes. Is it a habit among all military men to turn a cozy room into a prison cell?"
I was genuinely curious, and I didn't want to be snide. Well, maybe a little, but that was secondary.
Havisham didn't move for about ten seconds, then straightened up, sharply pulling a thick stack of papers from the bag. He tossed it onto the table, then slowly took off his coat and hung it over the back of the chair. A silver chain clinked quietly as it struck the carved, raised patterns.
"Sit," he said with a nod toward the stool.
I sat down cautiously, and just then, a short man in armor with red, chubby cheeks appeared in the tent's entry. He was one of the knights who always accompanied me on trips. I waved him over.
"There are documents on my table. Bring them — don't forget anything."
He hurried off, nearly tripping over a crate of rifles.
I looked around again. At least it was warmer in here than outside.
Oberon rested his elbows on the table, covered his mouth with a hand as broad as a hippo's paw, and began studying me with his gaze. It was so heavy I actually shifted my shoulders.
"Did you serve?" he asked suddenly.
My eyebrows shot up, and I leaned closer to the table, practically resting on it.
"No."
The captain's lower lip twitched.
"You're right. It's a habit. I'm not proud of it, but I can't do it any other way. Does it bother you?"
A soft chuckle escaped me.
"Not at all. I'm not the one living with you, Captain."
Oberon gave a muffled huff. His hand slid from his mouth to his ear, then pressed against the nape of his neck, ruffling the black hair at the back of his head. With a sigh, he leaned back against the chair, placing his palms on either side of the stack of papers.
The heat from the stove flowed pleasantly down my calves, and I suddenly wanted to take off my boots, to let that warmth in deeper.
"When I get home, I'll definitely warm my feet by the fireplace," I thought dreamily.
"Do you think a woman could live with a man who has habits like these?"
I rested my chin on the bend of my wrist and hummed thoughtfully. His naïve question amused me. My fingers began tapping rhythmically against my lips as I considered:
"Depends on the lady. One might find it annoying, another might think it's tolerable. Sharing a quirk sounds romantic, but it can also lead to fights. Every cup has its drink, Captain."
He froze. I could see it in his still Adam's apple and the way his pupils locked on me like red-hot steel needles.
"Do you have a beloved?"
What, did I have a sign over my head saying "I love awkward questions, ask away"?
I stretched my legs, rolling my eyes mockingly.
"I'm still young and not planning on finding a lady love just yet. So, no. Maybe we could move on to the paperwork?"
A quiet cough came from behind us. A knight hovered awkwardly near the entrance, hesitant to step in — only the toes of his grimy boots visible below the flap.
"Bring it over."
I sifted through the bundle of receipts, made sure everything was in order, and laid them out in front of the captain. His posture stiffened, and his gaze changed — he looked like a proper office clerk stepping into his natural habitat.
Oberon's eyes lingered on the embossed gold foil depicting the Alder family crest. He skimmed through the receipts quickly and nodded.
"Everything's here."
Then he pulled three sheets from the pile and slid them to me, pushing the inkwell and quill across the table.
"Your signature is needed here, here, and here," he said, pointing to the red-underlined lines at the bottom of each page. "I'll review the tax declarations while you do that, if that's alright?"
"Sure," I grumbled, signing the first one with a large, sloppy flourish.
We sat in silence for another five minutes. Voices by the fire had grown louder — the wine I brought had definitely raised them half a tone. It was clearly more fun out there than in here, but somehow, this atmosphere felt far more comforting.
Oberon didn't lift his gaze.
"Your steward's handwriting is awful."
The corners of my mouth fell.
"He's sixty-two and half-blind. Forgive the old man for not producing calligraphy masterpieces between gout attacks," I snapped coldly, defending Philipp.
The captain huffed.
"Maybe you should hire someone younger?"
"You volunteering?"
Oberon set the papers aside and reached for his glass of water.
"Absolutely not."
"Good."
Placing the final signature, I laid the quill down and, folding my hands on my knees, asked:
"Is that all?"
The captain leaned across the table, his sleeve brushing mine, and pressed his signet ring into the warm wax next to my name.
The exhaustion was hitting harder with each passing minute. I had no intention of staying up with the officers tonight playing cards, especially not if Havisham was going to be there.
But Oberon, apparently oblivious to emotional cues, handed me another document.
"One last one," he said, opening a page stamped with the royal seal. "Consent for quartering troops on your eastern fields."
I froze.
"Since when do soldiers need poppy fields?"
"Since the skirmishes on the Panum border flared up last week," he said, leaning back with a creak of the chair. "It's temporary. Compensation will—"
"I refuse."
His fingers whitened over his crossed knuckles.
"This isn't a request."
"Then why pretend it is?" I stood, leaning over the table. "Tell your king to find another pasture. Mine's occupied."
Oberon exhaled like scolding a disobedient child.
"I repeat: it's only for a short time. The treasury will compensate you handsomely."
I clenched my teeth. Of course. First they move onto my land. Then where? My bedroom?
I leaned in, close enough to feel his breath, and said:
"I repeat: no. And if that answer doesn't please the higher-ups, that's their problem. War's coming? Then defend the borders — don't eat away at my land like termites. My estate is far from the border, and yet they send you to me? Ridiculous."
Oberon raised his palms.
"Duke. Wait. I understand."
Then he placed his hand on mine, which was still gripping the document tightly.
"I understand your answer. Calm down."
His words sobered me. Releasing the paper, I jerked my hand back like I'd been burned and took two steps away.
"No army on my land."
Oberon nodded, smoothing the paper with the edge of his hand.
"Very well, my lord. I heard you."
His voice was colder now. What, was he offended?
"Are we done?" I didn't want to keep talking.
After a grunt of approval from him, I gathered the documents that were to be kept by the estate and turned without a word toward the exit, my spurs ringing against the floorboards.
"Good night, my lord," came his voice behind me.
As if he knew I wouldn't be stepping out of my tent again tonight.
Pausing at the flap, billowing from the strengthening wind, I tossed back a careless:
"You too."
The thick forest air quickly revived me. Near the fire, several groups had gathered — through the loud drunken chatter, only the clinking of glasses and the growling of dogs gnawing bones could be heard.
Turning away, I strode sharply toward my tent.
Washing my face in icy water and drying it with a warm, rough towel, I collapsed onto the bed.
Inside the tent, despite the sun still burning outside, a dim half-light lingered. A round stool held an oil lamp. Grunting, I reached over the wooden bedframe and pulled out a slim brown-bound book buried among the clothes. Margarita's diary.
Without shame, I opened it and settled among the pillows, tucking the blanket between my legs for comfort. The edge of the first page was scorched, as if held too close to a candle but never burned through. My fingers slid across the familiar, tidy handwriting.
The first page held only six sentences:
"Dear diary, today I dreamed of a willow grove for the first time. My brother and I were eating almond cake and drinking tea. Endels was smiling. I'd never seen him smile that wide. He must've been very happy...and I was, too. I was happy too."