**THE BRAZEN SERIES is part of the GOLDEN UNIVERSE**
♦YOU MUST HAVE READ BOOK ONE, A BRAZEN MAIDEN, TO READ THIS SEQUEL!♦
♦♦It is ALSO recommended that you read THE GOLDEN GIRL/DUCHESS/PRINCESS & QUEEN to better understand events in this novel, as...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
♪ What if I never even see you cause we're both on a stage Don't tell me listen to your song because it isn't the same ♪ {BANKS—Waiting Game}
Johanna became used to the heavy surveillance, the guards clogging corridors, the constant battering in the distance. She grew accustomed to the daily reports from the few Totresian soldiers Prince Jules had gifted them, and the mercenaries the advisors had been forced to hire for protection.
As word of Eugene's confirmed implications against the crown reached Limesdale, the riots amplified. Buildings caught fire, merchants known to be aligned with the Thatchers were robbed, and assassins attempted to climb the manor's barricades to steal in and capture Harriet. And when the rumors spread that Harriet wasn't there—she was in Torrinni, with her criminal of a father—those assaults stopped, but the city didn't rest.
Some tried to sneak out and voyage to the capital, to watch Eugene being hanged, Harriet being beheaded. Though not a single tale linked Harriet's presence in Torrinni to her father, many citizens implied she was there with him. They spun tales that she was either helping him escape, or sharing a cell with him for her actions.
Sir Fletcher addressed the public frequently, assuring the townsfolk that Miss Harriet, their Vidame, never was and never would be Eugene Thatcher. He swore to them all that she had nothing to do with the attacks on Giroma, with the murders inside the castle, with the gossip of alliances with the French and Giromians.
A few listened to him and did their best to settle the populace, to propagate the information and calm the rioters. But the citizens of Limesdale were stubborn, restless, and thirsty for truth, for proof. Many cursed at Sir Fletcher, demanding to see Harriet, to hound her with questions, to see her receive justice for her schemes against the royals.
The other advisors sought to help, also, but anyone associated with the Thatcher household had to remain within the manor barricades for their own protection. Too many townsfolk threw vegetables, fruit, even rocks at Sirs Bain, Crane, and Longley, disgracing them. Sir Chaucer had to race back home to seek shelter with his father.
"This cannot continue," said Sir Fletcher, in the evening of February the fifteenth. Harriet had written to them, warning them she had to stay in Torrinni for the funeral of Julia Espinar, but would return as soon as permitted.
"But what can we do? Until the crown issues a statement forgiving Miss Thatcher and assuring that she is a victim, like us all, the folk will not settle down, Jacob." Sir Crane's crooked nose disappeared in his cup as he sipped from his beverage—a rich burgundy wine found in the back of the cellars.
"Did you write to her?" Sir Fletcher turned to Johanna, who was lost in thought, glancing outside at the darkening gardens. "Johanna?"
No one called her Miss, not yet. Harriet hadn't formally offered her a title or publicly declared her as her half-sister, so most only referred to her with her God-given name. "I did, but I am unsure if our mail courier can weed through the mess." She sighed and flipped to the four men gathered around the round table, their gazes trained on her. It was the same thing every day since the riots had started—they convened morning, noon, and early evening to debate, discuss, decide. "They are amassing in front of the gates again, pressing to get in."
