Sitting at a long twelve-foot reclaimed chestnut trestle table with an open set of regional land surveys and a steaming ceramic mug of dark-roast chicory coffee…
Was Clara Mercer.
I was forty-two now.
I had assumed the permanent Chancellorship of the Sovereign Admiralty Trust six months ago, while retaining my commission as Senior Strategic Advisor to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The paralyzing trauma of those eight years of scrubbing floors, the sting of watching my husband throw five hundred dollars at my feet, and the heavy burden of forty years of family secrecy had completely metabolized into an un-shakeable, eighty-year architectural peace; my strength had completely returned, rooted in the bedrock of an un-broken command.
I wore an unadorned cream-colored linen work shirt, comfortable dark denim trousers with copper rivets, and clean leather field boots.
