To where, Nika didn’t know or especially care. He doubted his parents did either, but one prison was the same as the next in Nika’s experience. He was just grateful winter storms had ended and torrential rain rather than pelting snow washed against the kitchen windows. Keeping Elba warm during the harsh cold season hadn’t been easy.
“You. Stand next to the chair,” the rebel said to Nika’s father. He pointed at Mother. “And you beside him. No one need linger in the rainy wet before climbing into the transport truck if you’ve formed an orderly line.”
Soldiers directed Healer Kott to stand behind the chair, in position so he and Father could carry Toly in it. Rebels shoved Nika’s older sisters and another brother to one side of the chair. Averlee was remanded to the opposite side to help the youngest children, including Nika and Elba.
Once they were arranged to the rebels’ satisfaction, the soldiers withdrew to the arched doorway of the massive kitchen.
Even then, alarm didn’t bloom in Nika’s chest.
The truck would pull into the yard and to the kitchen door, out of view of curious peasants on the street. Rebels would lead them out one by one. Once his family had scrambled into the truck bed, soldiers would drive through the night until they reached the next house selected as their gaol. Nika knew the routine, having endured evacuation from approaching battle twice already.
Fear didn’t explode inside Nika until one of the soldiers stepped forward and said, “Eton Marisek, because of your crimes against the tribes and because your supporters continue to wage war against the people, you have been sentenced to death.”
Stunned terror froze Nika in place.
His father’s spine shot straight as he whipped around to face his accuser. He gasped. “What?”
“You are to be executed immediately.” The soldier barked at the others, “Ready!”
Each lifted a gun from the folds of their military coats and aimed at Nika’s parents, at his brothers and sisters. At him. Staring at the rebel pointing a revolver at he and Elba, Nika gulped. Fright flooded him, supplanting his shock.
They weren’t supposed to die. Father had sworn they were valuable pawns to the rebels, bargaining chips in negotiations with the White Army and its order of nobles. Mother’s family—salted among the monarchies of neighboring lands—would also pay a considerable sum for her safe return and for ransoming her children. A new government would emerge from the revolution, yes, one composed of both the aristocracy and rebels if war propaganda was to be believed. The revolution called for a representative council to lead the tribes rather than an emperor. Nika’s father would never rule again. His family wouldn’t. Until now, only rabble in the capitol had wanted the imperial family dead, though.
Nika was seventh in line to the throne—he didn’t understand politics and had never been taught such matters. He’d known he would one day marry to strengthen alliances for the empire, but with an excess of older brothers and sisters to govern territories under the leadership of the crown, his parents had deemed training Nika unnecessary. When he reached adulthood, they expected him to marry and vanish into the countryside of his husband’s tribe afterwards. Mostly, his family had been preparing him for his future by tutoring him in the arts.
Except Nika would not survive to adulthood. No political marriage awaited him. No more piano lessons, painting with the masters, or analyzing poetry. He’d die with his family in this kitchen.
He angled his body to shield Elba’s with his own.
The soldiers cocked their weapons.
His mother screamed.
“Fire!”
Chapter One
“Knit two, purl two. Knit two, purl…”
Weary satisfaction weighing down his shoulders, Nick smiled at students circling the dining room table he’d repurposed for the Stitchery’s classroom. His mom crouched at Madison’s chair, her warm voice guiding and encouraging the blonde paralegal through the basic rib pattern, the last of three stitches Nick had taught tonight. Twelve students. Nick could add a leaf to expand the table to seat fourteen, but a dozen was the shop’s sweet spot for Introduction to Knitting, one of their gateway classes. Many of these women would return to learn more…and buy the wool and needles necessary for extra classes. The Stitchery’s business model relied on it.
“You’re all doing an outstanding job. Remember to knit three inches of rib on your sampler scarf before next week. If you run into trouble before our next class, any trouble at all, come into the shop. Mom or I will be happy to help.”
Since his mom had completed radiation, her energy had begun returning, enough to deal with students who streamed into the shop between classes, which left Nick free to concentrate on managing the business again. Nick wasn’t bad at handling customers. Rosalind Goode had ensured both her sons had learned the skills that supported her shop and could adequately fill her role as teacher in a pinch. Nick had led most of his mom’s classes after her first few treatments and he’d taught when necessity demanded since high school, too. He lacked her charm, though. He’d improved over the past harrowing year, but their students—customers—preferred his mom. Nick didn’t blame them. He was much better at handling the financial books, scheduling events, organizing inventory, and any of the million other tasks running the shop required. Chores his mom had left in Nick’s hands for five profitable years. The division of labor, with Mom finessing customers and Nick focusing on the business angle, had worked effectively and had grown the shop into a thriving operation…until she’d gotten sick.
Thank God for remission.
And thank God their customers had stuck by them.
As students packed their projects into bags, Nick added ordering totes for the shop to his monstrous to-do list. Mom walked Lori, an expert-level crocheter who had decided to learn knitting, from their classroom to the shop floor display of locally sourced, sport-weight wool. Meanwhile, Nick ran the cash register for routine after-class purchases. Most of the twelve women bought notions, yarn, or selected from future classes on the calendar near the cash register. They’d buy totes, too, if the Stitchery carried those items. Customers bringing their own bags would save the shop on the cost of gift bags they used for purchases.
Tomorrow. He’d start the search for upscale totes tomorrow.
For now, he worked hard at being personable while he swiped credit cards and bagged merchandise. When the bell on the shop door signaled their last customer departing into the night, he navigated from the payment system on the shop computer to the customer database. Fingers flying over the keyboard, he updated details gleaned from class into each student’s record.