“Please, sir, if you want to resolve this situation, I fear you must contact her. You don't even know for sure if she knows who or where you are.”

Though the conversation had receded from Jameson’s mind for almost two days, thanks to an unexpected report of a Steeple revolt in Brompton, now that he possessed a few moments of respite, the topic returned to the forefront of his mind. “Of course, you are right, Itchy,” he began, but he was interrupted when a page appeared in the doorway of the little room.

“A messenger has arrived for you, sire,” the young man informed the residents of the room.

Jameson and Itchy turned to face the door as a rugged man in a soldier's uniform appeared before them.

“I beg your pardon, my lord. I bring a message from my commander.”

When the young man glanced at Itchy, Jameson raised his hand to interrupt the messenger's speculation. “Anything you need to say is appropriate for my high counselor to hear.”

Itchy shot a sideways glare at Jameson, but said nothing aloud.

“Yes, my lord,” the messenger continued. “The commander wished me to tell you that we have not yet found definite proof of Malchus Lorne's whereabouts. From the scant evidence we have seen, however, we suspect he might have found refuge with his family, though not in their home, but in some nearby familial holdings.”

When Jameson heard the name Malchus Lorne, his head began to pound with fury. Jameson had not found much time to dedicate brainpower to finding the criminal's whereabouts, but hearing the report of the fiend's location brought every detail of the previous months back to the forefront of Jameson's mind. With the memories crept the sick feeling he had so often experienced when he thought of his inaction during the past few weeks. Jameson recognized how many affairs had required his attention to prepare for his father to retake the throne, but none of the matters surpassed the recompense he owed Aylee.

Reality came back into focus as the messenger spoke, when Jameson suddenly recognized an even more important dereliction of duty to the young woman. He had imagined his negligence had arisen from his failure to repair his unkindness to her. By avoiding Aylee, though, Jameson had enacted an even more egregious offense. He had placed her in an extremely perilous position, abandoned as she now stood to a desperate and violent Malchus. Clearly Malchus could not pursue Aylee as he had when supported by the Duke's soldiers and armory, but the miscreant possessed a circumstance which made him very dangerous: Malchus had nothing to lose. How had Jameson left Aylee so completely on her own, even with a guard and her well-intentioned family supporting her?

True, she no doubt wished to remain in her home after such a long removal from all things familiar. She must, though, comprehend the inherent danger involved in remaining near Malchus, even now that he stood alone. Perhaps Jameson could atone for his failures by inviting her to stay at court for a while – away from any danger from Malchus. Fortunately for Jameson, his inconsequential court had not evolved into having rigid court protocols that existed among the more significant realms with kings.

Turning back to Itchy, Jameson picked up their conversation where it had left off. “I have already sent for her,” he informed his friend. “During our last conversation about Aylee. I gave her notice to appear in Capigan before the seven-day.”

“If I am to counsel you, sir,” the lymer chastised, “I must have assurances that you will seek my counsel on occasion.”

“What do you mean, Itchy? What do you think I have done this last half-hour?”

“You have moaned and lamented over your cowardice and impotence in regard to Mistress Hembry. That is not seeking counsel.”

“You tread in peril, friend Itchy. Why do you insult me?”

“My apologies, my lord,” Itchy bowed obsequiously, though his face bore scorn rather than apology.

“Itchy,” Jameson shook his head at his friend. “You may speak freely with me; you know that. It is you who have my apologies. Counsel me, please. In what do I need your wisdom?”

“I think, rather, that you might consider how you may undo what you have done.”

Jameson stared blankly at his friend.

“Have you asked yourself, sir, how your young lady might interpret a summons to court?”

“I hope she will wish to see me,” Jameson wrung his hands in anxiety. “I will have much to explain – much for which to apologize.”

“Did you consider that an invitation to see you, sent after so much time and with the accompaniment of a guard, might appear rather a summons than a request?”

Jameson stared at Itchy in horror. “That does not nearly represent the truth!”

“You who know your own mind – or mostly so – understand your reasonings completely, but a month ago, you thrust her away without explanation, and a summons might appear as compulsion.”

If the first thought had horrified Jameson, the second spurred him to distraction.

“Never would I compel Aylee to anything against her will! And she never would have obeyed had I tried.”

“Yet, Aylee did not know you as royalty. From what you know of her character, would she resist a true authority?”

“Only if that authority proved cruel or unjust.”

“Exactly. You, Jameson, have just sent Aylee a summons that she will interpret as your displeasure.”

Though he recognized the accuracy of Itchy's predictions, Jameson did not know how to rectify the situation. He might send a second messenger, but to what end? Anything he offered as explanation required too intimate of a confidence, and Jameson had to remedy this face to face. At the moment, though, he still held too many responsibilities at court to abscond and pursue a reconciliation with Aylee himself, even for half a day. How could he possibly offer her an acceptable explanation without hours of conversation?

Perhaps he would have softened the message a tad, offered a warmer request for her presence, but by the time a second messenger arrived at the Hembrys, Aylee would have started on her way. Plus, Jameson did not honestly think he could word the message in such a way as to offer her any security without seeing his face and understanding his heart. Even though he could feel no complacency about the message, neither could he find an alternative.

“There is little to be done now, sir,” Itchy seemed to agree, “so do not worry overmuch. She will come, and you will see her. When you do, she must find you prepared to undo any wrong you have committed.”

“And that she will,” Jameson agreed.