The year is 1464.
The War of the Roses rages on; a great showdown between Lancaster and York.
Yet, asleep in her bed, fiery-haired Melissa Woodville dreams of splintered shields, broken swords, and the resounding screams of wounded men in the Battle...
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FEBRUARY 7TH, 1471: "The sea is turbulent."
Melissa cast her gaze onto her sister, who observed the swishing water with a grim look in her eyes. "It is," she agreed. "And what about it?"
"If there were ever a convenient reason for perishing abroad, this wretched weather would be it."
The both of them stood at Gloucester's main harbor, which had been closed to all but the most trusted traders, on Melissa's orders. Sea spray wafted onto their faces, stinging their eyes and putting a salty taste upon their lips. Strong currents blew water up to where they were standing, staining their dresses and cloaks, and yet, they did not move — not even an inch.
"Your point, sister?" Melissa inquired evenly.
"Margaret of Anjou is said to be sailing." Cate pointed out. "But as are your husband, and the king."
"That is quite a conundrum, is it not?" The elder Woodville affirmed. "If you, indeed, suggest what I think you are suggesting."
Cate gave her an intense look, but said nothing else. She swished her cloak to the side, now half-wet from the water, and observed the weather in all its foulness.
"I will not deny, I am quite tempted to drown Anjou and her son, leave them to rot in the briny deep." Melissa admitted. "But, as you said, Richard is also at sea, along with his brother and ours. The risk is simply too great."
"Could the enchantment not spare them?"
The duchess shook her head. "It does not work like that. Magic runs wild and free; you cannot restrict it to only certain things, especially with an element as chaotic as the sea."
"So what will you do?" Her younger sister was blunt; she wanted an answer.
Melissa stayed silent. Rather than form a reply, she ducked down and — spreading her cloak on the pier — sat down. Brandishing a metal bowl she had evidently brought with herself, she leaned down to catch some of the wayward water as it splashed to and fro. Glancing behind her to make sure they were still unobserved, she placed the bowl in front of her and — hovering her palms above it — began chanting something.
