On the first night, after the surgery, a fever set in.

Marceline woke from the cottony embrace of the opiate given to relieve the pain twisted in bed sheets soaked in sweat. Madame des Champs was there...or was it her mother? Or perhaps someone else, a stranger with calm, cool hands that helped unwind her from the twisted bed clothes despite her protests. So much of the following days flowed like water, day into night, dream into waking. At some point, maybe the first night, maybe the second, her hand had begun to itch unbearably. The housekeeper had found her standing before the open window with the rain pouring down on her bloodied hands. The water hand been so cool, it helped relieve the pain. She'd torn the bandages off; the doctor had to be called, stitches replaced. After that she wasn't left alone.

One the morning of the fourth day, there was light. Marceline woke to the sun shining through the shuttered windows. A clear, bright morning after a long night of rain, where everything seems just a touch sharper, brighter, as if the world were freshly minted. She asked for water, and washed the sick room smell from her hair and body, the bitter, sour taste from her mouth, and dressed in her own clothes. Clearly someone had been back and forth to the Inn, because many of her own things had been provided. She knew it to be Nico's work, or perhaps Madame de Champs who was always practical and thoughtful when it came to such things. Even the small act of bathing and dressing left her feeling exhausted, but she felt she had been too long a burden and assured the housekeeper that she was in a proper state of mind and wanted only to rest a while in peace.

And so slowly, she began to feel herself again. Early exploration found that this was a house in need. It wasn't that it was poorly tended, it was that the housekeeper seemed to feel reluctant to voice her opinions of what needed to be done. Marceline made a point of speaking with her, and careful not to tread on a compatriots toes, offered her assistance and suggestions. It started simply enough, with lemons and oranges. Lemon juice to remove stains and tarnish, oil applied to wood. Floor boards were discretely replaced, and mosquito netting mended. Furniture was re-arranged into a more serviceable fashion. Small things. But the one thing both women agreed on as a priority was windows.

Panes were broken in places, missing in others, giving the house a derelict look and allowing entry to all manner of pests, even when the windows where closed. Marceline contrived to take the measurements of all the missing glass and sent word to a glazier she knew in the city who would be willing to do her this favor. He and his apprentice came out on a morning, and replaced the broken panes. Over stepping her bounds as a guest? She knew it, but who in their right mind would turn down free windows? The inn keeper offered to pay, but the glazier refused. The look of pity on his face when he saw her hand as she made to greet him haunted her for the rest of the day.

At night she was too tired to dream, and during the day she was too busy to dwell over much what had brought her to this state, and what still waited for her. Her trial loomed on the horizon like a distant storm, and like any island-born she was, in her way, preparing for that tempest. There were other conversations, usually in the evening when the heat of the day had died, that felt much like the preparations for a funeral. Among her correspondence were letters the island over, regarding this and that, the transfer of funds here, the fulfillment of promises there, to put her affairs in order.

Insects buzzed and whined in the grass, dizzy with heat, as she stood with brush in hand and regarded the wall like an artist examining their latest work, critical of the flaws. She wore her oldest clothes, a faded skirt and matching caraco of white striped linen, a white kerchief folded and tied, and covering the wild mass of dark curls. Perched atop her head was a hat of woven grass, borrowed, fraying at the edges. A splash of bright white graced her cheek and splattered like constellations on her sun-dark hands. The lower half of the side of the main house had been whitewashed, making the rest look all the worse. She'd started early in the morning, the housekeeper excusing herself to attend her duties and a hand purloined from his helping for the better part of the day. But now the hour was slightly after mid day, when the heat was at it's worst, and though she was loathed to stop what had already begun, the sweat that dripped in cool fingers down her back signaled replenishment might be in order. Taking off her hat she used it as a make-shift fan, brush bearing hand balled on one cocked hip as she stared at the work ahead as if considering some strategy against it.

Monroe was not a careful rider nor was he the sort to be so reckless in the way the beast would hate him later, but he certainly wasn't one to spare the horse any grief. Animals may have been blind to their master, but they were not stupid.

The beast huffed as it pounded down the road and kicked up the dust from the path as though a great gust of wind swept through the streets with a rage. The hooves of the horse beat against the road with as much strength and determination as it's rider, and though they both did their best to ignore the harsh sun as it lay open their backs. Master Monroe was to be home by the quarter hour and that horse was going to get him there.

"He's going to run that horse into the ground," Voices of the staff spoke nearly all at once and in a language native to the island, "His legs are too long, and he don't even have a proper bed to fit em, but he thinks he can push that poor thing. Its heart will give out!"

The house scrambled to prepare for his arrival, the dust of the horse and rider as much a beacon as a fire in the night, but there was more a cloud of dread as ever.

Ashley's moods were too severe to challenge, his temper short, and his mannerism belittling. Whatever it was had been that kept him away for so long sent him on a destructive spiral that was nearly blinding. He hardly ate, he didn't sleep, and most of his time was spent in the study with texts older than he of French laws and Courts. The entire household breathed again each day as he left and held their tongue upon his return. However, now that he was almost home they all lined up to greet him, all--three of them.

A man came to take the horse, while the head slave came to collect his coat and hat. She tried to get him to take the water offered, but he ignored her and dismissed them both without so much as a thank you or any other sign of gratitude. He didn't meet their eyes as his were still reading the text again from the letter that he had started to read upon the first part of the ride, and now as he let the words sink in he came around the side of the house where the innkeeper was working.

"Paris will not send you a jury," The words were as stiff and void as the expression he gave her when he announced it. He didn't address Marcy as he came to expect her attention now that he demanded it, "Nor are they are sending another judge to hear your case. You will go before that fool."

It was a common practice for the pools of jurors to be selected of the lower courts as well the high, but the magistrate here had done everything to prevent it as he didn't appreciate Ashley's defense.

When the American had first explained that he'd like to plead her case, she'd laughed. Perhaps it was the earnestness of his expression, his righteous indignation at the gross miscarriage of justice. She could tell right away he'd not been on the island long; he had yet to be worn down the way all the Grand Blancs from abroad eventually were, even the most ardent of humanists. Either they left in disgust, or they stayed, and in time much like their neighbors became inured to the pervasive corruption that lingered behind every door, like the smell of over-ripe fruit. But she was too tired to explain, and either her cause would prove a lesson to him or who knew? Maybe, maybe there was some justice left in the world after all. In the end, she shrugged.

"Why not?"

She'd not seen the dust on the horizon, and the staff were too busy bustling with last minute preparations to inform their guest that the master of the house was approaching. Her host, so far as she could tell, was an irascible man. Curt and often ill tempered, spending hours brooding over antiquated texts, hoping to find some bit of legal chicanery perhaps to employ on her behalf? His moods mattered little to her. She did her best to be an inoffensive guest and make herself useful, but at the same time refused to be cowed. She was prepared to tolerate a great deal, but if she allowed herself to be intimidated by her counsels taciturn demeanor however would she be able to stand up in court?

The master of the house approached, wearing the dust of the road on his coat, letter in hand, no doubt still sore after winding his horse racing back from the city. Poor beast. "Paris will not send you a jury,". Despite the fact he did not let his emotions play upon his face, she could tell that he was indignant. He had seemed convinced that he could arrange for a fair trial. It was admirable. It was naive. Marceline greeted the news that no impartial judge or jury was to be had calmly, having expected nothing more or less. Her brothers, if they lived, were fugitives. She'd been arrested by no less than the current Captain of the Guard himself. Even when her family had been a sterling example of what passed for propriety on this island, the courts had seen fit to strip she and her brothers of their rightful inheritances. Why would anything be different now?

Placing the fraying straw hat upon her head to shield her eyes from the sun, she tilted her chin upwards to regard the attorney, a faint lift of her brow as she offered her hand forward, "May I?". Requesting permission to view the letter.

The hand that reached was complimented with only thumb and forefinger whole and complete. The middle and ring were shorn to nubs, and the littlest entirely absent, all wrapped up in a neat bandage now speckled with paint. It was to spare others the vision of others stitches like spiders legs, flaps of skin sewn over. Marceline herself had come to terms with it, in her way. She lived. The sun still rose in the east and set in the west. She could still hold a pen. There were many things to be grateful for.

He was reluctant to hand her the letter, but when he did it read:

“My Dearest Ashley,” the handwriting masculine but so very well scripted, “I wish that I could do you this one favor, truly, but I fear that the financial state of Paris can not simply abide to such a request. As you are well aware of the troubles I face, you know tears me apart to not see you succeed, but I have little to offer you in this risk. Things are not as they were when you left, and I’m ashamed to admit that I was unable to keep them together without you.”

The tone of the letter was far too familiar, speaking of his relationship with Jean Sylvain Bailly as though they were more than just friends. Endless nights spent in close confines to study the stars did that to men, and even as he folded the letter now to hand it to her he was almost remorseful to hand it over. There was something almost foreboding in the man’s text, something that was almost a warning, but Ashley had to concentrate on the Trial.

“Fear not my beloved friend, you can overcome this, and you will. Just look to the East on the 7th of April and you will see your stars and be mindful of the red dawn.”

The coded text an easy answer to his unasked questions, but they were not as important right now as not receiving a jury.

“There was another murder last night. This one at the hands of the tailor’s help and frankly I just haven’t been here this long to make such contacts to keep another out.” He needed to host something, get out there and start mingling back with the crowds, but Ashley’s wounded heart wasn’t ready to see her.

"The targets are all the same," He muttered to himself, as though trying to work through the reasoning as he went.

Upon reading the intimate words she understood that momentary reluctance for him to share his correspondence. Respectfully, she refolded the letter and returned it to its rightful owner. Though part of it was worded in a code that no doubt meant something only between the two of them, the rest was much as she expected. Nothing about her position was changed. She intuited that much of her host's frustration wasn't due to her cause in particular, which was only ancillary to his own, the shape of which she could only hazard to guess. He seemed a patron of causes, an affliction she'd seen before; the disappointed idealist. It seemed she'd found a lawyer who truly believed in justice. Who would have thought?

She and her brother Henri had been spared the bug. Perhaps because unlike their young, rebel brother, they knew St. Domingue as only one grown beyond the sunlit days of childhood can know it. When men like Ashley spoke of liberté, égalité, fraternité, they spoke for men like themselves. Not of people like her.

St. Domingue was not France. It was not America. It was its own entity. Ask anyone on the island what liberty, equality, and fraternity meant and they'd give you a different answer.

The petit blancs resented the gran blancs from the mainland and the gens de couleur like herself. They were relegated to positions as provincial administrators, tradesmen; the working classes. She'd known men like Dutoit her whole life. They hated everything about her. The way she spoke, the way she dressed, the house she lived in, the people she associated with when they could not. A neg, like her, their equal? And yet she spoke good French and ate from china plates. The free people of color resented being kept from places of real influence, edged out of positions of rank and power when by virtue of education and wealth they considered themselves well above most of the lower class whites. Why should they, by virtue of the accident of birth and few shades of brown, be kept from positions they believed they more than deserved? The gran blancs, born in La France herself, thought themselves superior to all of them; this mob of provincial boors and colored bastards aping the manners of their betters.

And then there were the slaves. Who formed the vast majority on this island, and daily were sacrificed to the mill of commerce. What did liberty mean to them?

This world spun on hatred.

He spoke of murders and she thought she could feel a rumbling beneath her feet. The shifting of tectonic plates; continents colliding, the fundament threatening to crack below their feet, swallow them whole. "It sounds as though someone is trying to paint themselves as the new Macandal." Macandal, who swore he would return to free his people. Macandal, the sorcerer whose followers poisoned hundreds, who rose from the flames of his own execution as a mosquito, they say. She was barely two years old when his rebellion began. She could remember her mother being afraid to trust any of the slaves with the cooking, in her youth. Marceline frowned faintly, deeply disturbed by this turn of events, and looked back to the side of the house, considering if she should continue or wait until tomorrow. She could not do anything about the threat of uprising at the moment, but she might manage a few more feet of whitewash.

@Lily

"It sounds as though someone is trying to paint themselves as the new Macandal.”


“You are very close to the truth with that,” He admitted with his hands still planted firmly at his side in thought, “And I am familiar with the man who is stacking these cards against us.” Ashley looked around them for any straying eyes or ears pressed to other side of boards in an attempt to hear what was going on outside other than the white washing.

“And the truth of it is, it is not the poor or natives that he truly desires. It is the distraction that they cause. If he keeps the courts entertained with the idea of possible rebellion and crimes, it gives him a chance to move his entire fleet out from under both the taxes and the partners he has endured.” Jocelyn had control over everything Aurore had worked for, and now he was taking the government here by storm.

Ashley took the letter back and tucked it into his breast pocket.

The sun had been unkind to him that day and his face was flush from the heat.

“I will need to gather my contacts here. It seems I have a bigger problem than I thought.”

He would need to contact Clare and have her send as many letters as she could across all of Europe. What Jocelyn was doing was more than just an act of greed. It would be an act of war. France would be in danger now of more than just their own rebellion—invasion from the North.

“Are you somewhere that you can stop?” He asked of the painting as though it was as important as her own life, but honestly the sun was truly about to kill him, “Will you come inside and I shall explain further.”


@Quoth

Marceline was only an innkeeper. She had lived a small life on a tiny island, and never wanted for more. She understood the depth of the ocean, how easy it was to be caught in the undertow, swept up by currents too strong to fight. St. Domingue was a microcosm of the world beyond the deep blue sea, a world that was collapsing, colliding, reshaping itself into something new. She was aware of her own smallness in the grand scheme of things, and kept to her place and let others worry about the rest. What else could she do?

Her laughter rang like bells, but it was hollow of humor, “Sadly, Monsieur Monroe, he has likely needed to expend very little effort to do that.” She was already being tried in the court of public opinion, a topic hotly divisive along predictable lines. The charge of treason was almost incidental. Without ever having meant to, she was becoming a rallying point for local gens. Did you hear about Madame Hebert? Imprisoned, tortured under the thinnest of evidence. Mon Dieu, how can this be endured? Which of our young ladies is next?! This is intolerable! Made a martyr by virtue of her frailty and her sex, her image in the publics eyes distorted. To some, a saint, to others, evidence of the natural baseness of the colored races. I wonder if this is how saints must feel. Their image turned into something unrecognizable as themselves, something other than human. An icon instead of flesh and blood.

It is not the poor or natives that he truly desires. It is the distraction that they cause.

A moue of contempt formed at the words, fury welling in her breast. Such galling arrogance. By what right did these people come here to toy with their lives in such a way? She shook her head vaguely, “ What it must be, to walk among continents like the titans of old, playing with the lives of millions and heedless destruction they leave in their wake so long as they end up on top of the rubble. “ And the worst of it was, they hardly needed prompting to tear each other apart.

The lawyer seemed wary of listeners, as well he should be. The slaves had their own networks on the island, and word passed from plantation to plantation with surprising speed. Shrugging wearily, she moved towards the bucket, fitting on the lid to prevent it drying, "I shall start earlier tomorrow," she said, packing things away, "If you are to receive guests, at least your house will look as though someone lives in it." Besides, the lawyer seemed about to drop from this heat, and that would be a tragedy.

“No. And he knows it. So I am sorry to admit that your case is not something that I believe in, but I fear I must get you off to keep the peace. The more of these acts that he forces and the more I knock down, the less likely there will be war.” He didn’t want to look at her while he made his confession and made his way into the house to open a bottle of whiskey.

“I appreciate everything that you are doing, but do not think that I need your charity. You owe me nothing, I hope that you see that.” How could she not? With him saying then and there that he was not doing this to get her out, but she just happened to be a fly caught in the spider’s web.

“Tell me…can you write?”

After stowing away her supplies, the former innkeeper followed her attorney into the shade and relative cool of the house, where he proceeded to open a bottle of whiskey. She studied him frankly, her arms crossed in front of her, expression unreadable. At his admission, her light brown eyes, so expressive, grew wide "Do you mean to say, Monsieur Monroe, you were not moved by pity to play my knight gallant? I am wounded." She said with barely feigned shock before casting off the doe-eyed look. Shaking her head she dropped the pretense, "Sir, I have always known it was not for pity's sake that you decided to plead my cause, and that I and my case am only...ancillary to whatever else are your concerns." There was something almost refreshing about putting all on the table.

"I do not do this all out of some misplaced sense of duty, though I am grateful. I do this for myself, because if I were to remain idle I fear I should go mad." That was the simple truth of it.

Her eyes narrowed faintly. Of course, he would ask such a thing. She smiled demurely, replying sweetly, "Oui, Monsieur. What shall I compose in? Latin? French? Spanish? English? I'm afraid I must confess, my command of German is not to be relied upon."

If possible, Ashley held more respect for her when she corrected his assumption that she was doing this out of some sort of misplaced respect.

"French," He answered though turned a quizzical brow at her, "You can write in Latin?"

Now that had his interest.