11/14/2011 00:00
Word count: 5492
Status: Considering expansion
“You know I’m here for your entertainment, Elizabeth,” he whispered into her ear as he stroked a blonde lock.
“Ah... Gy-rate.” The young noblewoman’s drawl twisted his name in a way that repulsed him.
Jireyt Senseraph toyed with her long tresses. After attending the ball downstairs, the pair had retired to the noblewoman’s room. At the moment, they relaxed in the soft candlelight of Elizabeth’s bedchambers. He straddled and leaned over her but refrained from touching her skin. The man lowered his head as if to nip her neck. The woman pouted when his face dived into her hair instead.
“If you are here for me, why do you not touch me?”
His deep voice dropped an octave. “Oh? Are you ready so soon?” Jireyt’s moss-colored eyes pinned her to the dark red pillows.
These Ivory Waters men were like predators, their gazes fierce and their bodies’ easy grace. Although he had their mannerisms, his eye color and olive skin marked him as a foreigner too. That made her wonder why the Ivory Waters Kingdom had trouble producing children. The men were virile, from what she gathered from Jireyt Senseraph. Her country delivered her here to remedy the issue, to mate. And create political ties for her homeland.
Elizabeth snaked her arms through the pillows heaped around them. “Yes.”
“Milady Elizabeth Lancaster.” His lips collided into hers, making sure she knew he was in charge. She was okay with that, for she felt Cupid’s arrow pierce her breast. Elizabeth ran her nails through his wavy hair. The warmth started from the arrow and flowed across her chest, neck, stomach.
The man broke the kiss and sat back on his haunches. Elizabeth smiled weakly; that kiss had literally stolen her breath. Her eyes traveled from his eyes, to his stubbly chin and to his blood-spattered dinner jacket. A dagger, its hilt composed of twining monkshood, stood from her bosom.
Jireyt watched as the pale foreigner fumbled towards realization. He wasn’t interested in bedding blonde bitches. He wrenched the blade out and cleaned it on her petticoats. He closed her eyes and mouth before he shoved her under the covers. He retrieved his glittering wolf mask.
One foreign woman in heat down and a ballroom full of them to go.
Jireyt leaned over Lady Rayn Maul’s shoulder and addressed her reflection in the vanity mirror. “What’ve you done to your hair, milady? Have a seat. Please.”
“Don’t give me that tone, Jy. Lady Eliza—Lizzy fashioned it. Do you see that?” Rayn pointed to the long ropes of hair and ribbons on the piled carpets. An hour ago it had been a spiraling bun webbed with strings and ribbons attached to her head. Now it looked like a nest of vomit.
Rayn handed him her dagger, the hilt fashioned in a splayed chrysanthemum. He had presented it to her three months and ten days ago, her 25th birthday. Twenty-five was the age when the country of Ivory Waters deemed women ready to bear children. Unfortunately, the women have not being conceiving as many children as normal. Ever since the prince began to assume the king’s duties, the birth rates have decreased.
He mentally shook himself and paid attention to styling Rayn’s botched haircut. “Your Lord grandfather will be very irritated with you, milady. You know he cannot take anymore…surprises.”
“It’s Rayn, Jy. I’m not ‘milady’ in my own bedroom! And he won’t be that surprised.” She took the mirror he handed her and swiveled around to look at the back. He had layered her hair so that it laid flat against her skull.
“I will require a dance at the next ball, then,” Jireyt said.
“And you’ll take me flying when you lose,” she said, holding her hand out for the dagger.
“Deal,” they said in unison.
Francesca, Rayn’s robust nursemaid, bustled in and eyed the man with blatant disapproval, and paled when she saw the naked blade in his hand. “Count Grimlak requests your presence on the Overlook, Jireyt Senseraph.”
He sheathed it inside his clean jacket and bowed to his lady. When he drew abreast to the maid, he gave her a feral grin, enjoying her face drain of color before he exited. He walked down the subdued hallway, the small torches barely making up for the clouds suppressing moonlight. The musty carpets would have muffled his footfalls if he were not so lightweight. He ascended the spiral staircase two steps at a time, but without haste.
The Outlook was the largest terrace of the Mauland Manor. It covered more than half of the fourth floor; the rest belonged to the Count’s study and chambers. Potted plants, stone benches, and statues littered the masonry of the terrace at regular intervals. Jireyt strode out into the chilly air and stopped a few feet away from the slightly stooped man holding the rail.
They both took in the dark scenery of Mauland, one of the central counties of Ivory Waters. It was bleak. It had rained hard and fast in the last half hour. Horses and carriages tracked mud and leaves on the cobbled streets. All sorts of party decorations clung to the gutters. Many candles were still lit in the townhouses down below. Beyond that, the night obscured the countryside from view.
“Report.” Count Grimlak’s voice was like a bear’s whisper, deep and grumbling.
Jireyt eyed his aging contractor. “A fair harvest this evening, lord. Lady Elizabeth is abed in her guestroom. Lady Angeline rests in the first cloakroom. Tina is on the bench in the maze. Silvestra is on the other one.” He leaned on his right leg and began to count on his fingers. “Queenie and Akira are in the second floor powder room. Braelyn’s in the bushes on the front lawn. Odette—the boathouse. Kumiko—the gazebo. Nehela—the stables.”
None of the foreign women had been particularly difficult to isolate and murder. A few well-timed compliments and hints and the women could barely remember that her skirts should brush the floor in polite company. Jireyt had to admit that the buzz he felt when slaying lessened with each easy kill. But assassinations were his specialty. The fewer foreigners there were, the better chance Lady Rayn had of marrying the Crown Prince of Ivory Waters. All according to Count Grimlak’s will.
Grimlak turned and appraised him.
The fallen angel saw him slip back into his memories. He knew which one.
Twenty-five years ago, Grimlak had found him, broken, by the sea’s edge. Even as a six-year-old Jireyt understood he had been a beautiful boy, and white-winged at that. Grimlak took him back to the manor, intending to raise him as his male heir. His wife died decades before and only birthed him a daughter. She too produced a girl, Rayn. She ran off with her husband as soon as she was strong enough to leave the birthing bed, abandoning the child. “The women in my family are useless,” Grimlak had told him.
That dim Sunday morning, the week after his splintered bones healed, Jireyt introduced himself as “Jireyt Senseraph” to those living in Mauland Manor. After the midday meal, Jireyt trudged up the spiral staircase to the fourth floor. He whispered the words that shielded his wings from sight. The boy knew he would look more human without them. He entered the study without knocking and stopped just far enough away so that he could be seen over the paper-stacked mahogany desk.
He noted the way the old man pull his mauve robe closed. It was like an involuntary shiver had ricocheted down his spine. A chorus of birds sang from the branches outside the arched window behind him.
“You have something to say, Jireyt?”
“I will not be your heir. You will instead hire me as your personal assassin.”
Grimlak’s brown eyes flickered shut several times. “An assassin? Surely I won’t.”
The angel would prove his abilities to him. Jireyt rounded the desk and opened the window. He climbed the twisting tree to the nest of red birds with ease. Two flew off, leaving the babies defenseless. Jireyt dangled his finger over one’s mouth. It chirped and bounced around, begging. He crooned and cradled it in one hand. The bird peeped again.
Jireyt’s eyes dilated as lightning shot through him. He watched the blood around the two lumps of bird well before it poured from his palm. He slipped the bloody knife he’d acquired from lunch into the neck of his white gown. The angel dropped the lumps in the nest with its siblings without ceremony. Jireyt, poised four stories above the ground, gazed back to the old man, waiting for him to acknowledge his deed.
The Count’s mouth hung agape, then flapped, and opened again.
“I must tell you something important. I can only ‘touch’ someone with their permission. There is a difference between touches.” Jireyt slid and hopped out of the tree and sat on the icy stone sill. His feet dangled into the room.
Grimlak stood from the chair and faced him. “That bird...allowed you to touch it?”
Jireyt jumped to the floor, his head tilted way back to meet the man’s gaze. “Once he accepted me, I could do what I wanted with him. I am an angel, you know. I want thirty gold for every five kills and room and board. You must admit that what I’m offering is cheaper than what another assassin would demand from an aging, heirless, and wifeless, count.
“I also want meals included. Human food is fascinating. And I want to try this strange concept of being paid for services rendered.” With that, Jireyt held out his right hand, the bloody one.
“Enough with being lost in thought, Grimlak. That’s sixty gold for ten foreigners.”
The seventy-five-year-old shook himself from his memories. “Did you see to that young upstart?”
A knight from a neighboring county tried to get Lady Rayn to elope with him last month. Grimlak had invited the knight to tonight’s ball. Jireyt had acquired the ten dead foreign ladies’ favors and planted them on the knight during a group dance. He was shortly charged with all of the murders soon after a group of upset women found the ladies in the powder room. The knight would be put to death as soon as the string of balls were over.
Grimlak had only started him on killing the foreign women shortly before Rayn’s twenty-fifth birthday. So far, Jireyt’s body count was seventy-seven. The women’s homelands were getting suspicious, but as long as the “murderer” was caught and dealt with, they had to be satisfied. Human justice made no sense to the angel. It made no difference to him though.
“You are capable, competent, and creative, Senseraph. I require your services again tomorrow at the Crown Prince’s Ball. No masks at this one. ”
The glass doors clattered as they flew open. Jireyt instinctively drew his daggers, one between each finger, to defend his contractor. Rayn’s heeled boots thudded against the stone. The angel relaxed.
“Grandfather! The prince! Invite. Ball. Tomorrow.” She clutched the crumpled letter to her chest as she sucked in air.
Jireyt saw exactly when Grimlak’s blood pressure rose. As soon as his eyes settled on Rayn’s short hair, veins pulsed in eyes and his face reddened. Before he formed sentences around the rage, the assassin broke in.
“Thank you for informing us, milady. Shall we go ask Francesca about your wardrobe for the affair? The prince must be struck with awe.”
Her eyes narrowed, and then she gripped his hand. “I just want to party. You’ll come too, right, Jy?”
Jireyt recalled the whole bloody process of bringing forth a new human life. It happened the month after Grimlak took him in. It was time-consuming and disgusting. Angels’ births happened in an instantaneous burst of light. But there was something about this birth that drew his curiosity. So much effort was put into that little life. It was ridiculous how easy it would have been to take. This squalling creature with limp brown curls piqued his interest further when she grabbed his hand, like he was hers. He decided he would watch her grow and morph into a fully developed human.
When he was not throwing knives or stalking the help, he observed Rayn Maul. Francesca never liked him visiting the nursery. Jireyt would just appear on the flower-patterned ottoman by the crib, watching the baby gurgle. He knew that it disturbed her to see him, a killer at ease in a lilac-themed nursery in daylight.
“Isn’t it time for lunch, boy?”
“I don’t need to eat.”
“Then why don’t you go play out on the lawn like all little boys do?”
He turned his head, the odd aura around him flared. “I’m not a ‘boy.’”
While stalking her one afternoon, Jireyt overheard Francesca pleading with Grimlak. Begging him to send him back to wherever, but Grimlak would not hear it. Grimlak said that it was her duty was to care for the girl. And that was that.
The angel became Rayn’s playmate. She followed him, tried to catch him, learned to talk. He even flew her over the Outlook under her grandfather’s supervision only. Something between the pair shifted when they took a walk to the shore. Rayn had just turned eight and he was fourteen.
“How’d you get here? What’s it like where you’re from?”
Jireyt rolled up the legs of his pants. “It’s grim. A little girl isn’t privy to the details.”
“Tell me! Come! Please?” Rayn splashed him with seawater.
Like he had the right to deny her as a servant, he thought as he waded out. “I’m from Heaven.” He bent over to sift through sand. “I’ve always been curious. Always. I discovered death when my mother brought me to Earth. She let me come with her every time. I found a rose. I decided to block the sunlight for a really long time.”
“So?”
“That flower led to crushing bees and other insects. Then trapping and torturing rodents, cats. One morning, she brought home a Dachshund pup. He was light brown, like your hair. I killed him too. My mother found some of him.”
Rayn, her skirts lifted and tucked into her belt, stared at him openmouthed. She splashed towards him and gripped his strong shoulders. “You killed it? What did she do?”
Jireyt looked to the darkening horizon. “My mom’s a Virtue who heralds good news. She told my father this bad news. He’s a Throne, an angel that praises Him for all time. Well, she pleaded for the lesser punishment: banishment from Heaven.”
She was hiccupping in his arms now. Human displays of emotion were strange.
He continued with his story anyway. He lay broken and kinless on this shore until her grandfather found him. Jireyt didn’t tell her about his curiosity in humans. He didn’t tell her he would have killed Grimlak if he hadn’t been incapacitated. He also didn’t tell her about their contract. Neither did he tell Rayn how he earned the money used to buy her birthday presents. Jireyt wondered how long he would play along. Wondered what the next intriguing thing might be.
The capital of Ivory Waters floated on Ivory Lake, aptly named. It was brash yellow this night. A myriad of spheres lined roofs, fences, and windowsills. The city was a twisting target. Arekaldé Castle stood as the bull’s-eye. The first ring housed the wealthy, regardless of their line of work. Next were regular citizens and shops. The last held mostly soldiers. The roads, supported by thick pillars, snaked around each other. In some cases, houses sat atop one another. It would take an invading army precious time to find the correct path to the castle. The only way into the capital was a long, white granite drawbridge.
The fallen angel flew above the clouds, unwilling to have his secret unveiled by a potato farmer. As he descended, he saw a footman dressed in lavish red fabric drive Grimlak’s favorite six-horse carriage into a marked off field full of carriages and other odd means of transportation. He grounded himself a mile before the gates. Jireyt flapped his lush plumes once more. He waved his fingers in a fluid motion and whispered something in the angelic tongue that caused his normally subdued glow to blaze. The wings retracted and shimmered out of sight. Frowning since he flew so sparingly, he strode down the empty streets.
Once he reached the gate, he was hardly frisked by the guards. Jireyt flashed his bronze ticket, received a quick pat down, and passed. The drawbridge lowered for him. The guards must have assumed all the guests had already arrived. Jireyt passed through dozens of checkpoints that pointed him in the right direction. It was full night by the time he made it to the grand stair.
The announcer asked for his ticket. He turned to address the vast crowd below. “Heir to Mauland—Jireyt Senseraph.”
Jireyt hadn’t even bothered to read the print on the ticket. He would have confronted Grimlak last night. That old man had blatantly violated their contract. For all the frigid rage he felt, Jireyt didn’t allow the thoughts to register on his face, standing a story above everyone else. He knew he looked impressive in his simple dress. His hair was mussed the way human women adored. The announcer took the cloak dyed a shade darker than his eyes. His doublet was of the same material and his high-collared shirt was tucked into black trousers. Even his leather high top boots were polished to a high sheen.
“Let the party commence.” Jireyt descended into the crowd.
The nearest women, and men, eyed him shamelessly. Their eyes scraped across his olive skin like he was some kind of forbidden fruit they were deciding whether to pick or not. It grated his throbbing temper. He focused his attention on scouting out the room. The lords and ladies bobbed to the sounds of drummers and an eight-man guitar ensemble towards the back of the ballroom, not far from the empty thrones. Colored lanterns hung from turning wheels on the ceiling, throwing colors on the diverse dancers.
Jireyt noted the three exits: one large archway on either side of the ballroom and the staircase behind him. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind the thrones looked over the capital and out to the dark sea. With that done, he stalked through the dancers. Their deal was explicit. A fallen angel wouldn’t settle for a county. He would consider a continent, the world, but never for something as miniscule as a county.
The real insult eroded away at his restraint. How dare a human appoint him as his replacement? Did Grimlak really think he would enjoy watching over a human’s plot of land because he had nothing better to do for all eternity? To make matters worse, he could not get out of this title, even if his horrible deeds came to light. Jireyt could shame the family name, but he would still be the appointed count and caretaker of Mauland.
Even if he did become the new count, heaven forbid, it forced Rayn out of her inheritance. He had to admit that he had a very soft spot for her. But then she would probably catch the prince’s attentions with her spunk.
The angel bobbed and weaved between flowing skirts and spilling drinks. Jireyt wondered what kind of human this prince was. This ball was rowdy compared to the last fifteen. He could see Rayn fitting right in, but this was too much pizzazz for the old man to take.
And there she was, dancing in a bright blue dress that just brushed her calves. Francesca would never have allowed the lady to leave the house so inappropriately dressed. As he made his way between grinding bodies, the wheels stopped turning and the colossal drums gathered the crowd’s attention. A larger lamp lit up the thrones. The majesties entered from the arch on the right.
“The Royal Highnesses of Ivory Waters—King and Queen Arekaldé,” the announcer bellowed from his perch on the stairs.
The king, who stood a full two heads taller than his wife, was mighty old. His gizzard flapped as he escorted the portly queen to the thrones. The queen wiggled herself into the leftmost seat and he lowered himself into the middle one. The white light only made the royal couple look sickened.
Before the feel good vibe diminished further, the announcer continued. “And your host: His Royal Highness—Crown Prince Reesh Arekaldé!”
It’s said that a country’s fate is tied to its ruler. Jireyt knew instantly that it wasn’t the women of Ivory Waters fault they weren’t having children. Their men were expending themselves elsewhere. No wonder men had been ogling him hungrily since he’d arrived. The Crown Prince was the ring leader of this movement, unknowingly or not.
Reesh trotted in from the left archway wearing a ruffled blouse of turquoise, its sleeves heavy with silk fringes. His shapely calves were covered in plum leggings. His short trousers were embellished with gaudy gemstones. Jireyt, having reached Rayn near the front of the room, could see the amount of paint applied to his face. Old, traditional Count Grimlak was cringing alone in a corner somewhere at the sight of the prince and his, ah, contemporary lifestyle. He bet his immorality on that.
With a flip of his unbound chocolate locks, Reesh studied his guests. “Good evening, people of Ivory Waters and special guests from afar! Are you enjoying my ball?”
A roar of applause, a lot of it male, sent the prince into a thrall of delight. “Ah! Do please, carry on!”
The drums and the acoustic guitars started up with renewed fervor. Jireyt pulled Rayn’s back against himself and took the dance he had won. He also wished to prove to nearby men that he was only interested in dancing against a woman’s backside.
She did not have to turn around. She knew his arms well enough. “You’ve arrived!”
“The old man?” he said. The words shot out before he thought to censor himself.
Rayn pivoted, still swiveling her hips in time with the beat. “Jy—”
“Rayn.”
“He’s probably gone back to the table in the West Dining Room.” She made a grab for his sleeve, but Jireyt dodged and slipped through the crowd.
The old count nursed his glass of liquor at a green-clothed table, surrounded by drunken partiers in the farthest corner of the dining room. He refused to engage in conversation, so they chatted amongst themselves. The lights from the ballroom outlined Jireyt’s approaching form.
The chattering died down when they caught sight of his expression. Grimlak did not bother to look up, his head supported in his hands. The partiers’ chairs scraped against the marble in their haste. Jireyt sat across from the count. He knew every thought that had caused such a stoic man to sink into a drunken daze.
The past six months had been a waste of time. The framings, the seventy-seven dead women, and trying to groom Rayn so she would attract the prince had been for naught. Apparently neither he nor Grimlak had been up-to-date on society’s new interests. The prince was dancing with men. Ivory Waters’ future would be bleak indeed. Women will be hard-pressed to find a straight man to marry. And the foreigners no longer had a reason to be here.
When Grimlak didn’t say anything, Jireyt spoke. “Heir, old man?”
Grimlak’s dulled eyes widened.
“I will remove six gold from your pocket for your life, Lord Grimlak. That’s a fifth of my usual pay. Generous, I’d say.”
Grimlak’s head snapped up. He looked as if he were having difficulty focusing.
Jireyt lounged in the wooden chair, his legs crossed to the side and his right arm thrown over the back. The dingy white aura around him glowed powerfully despite the barrage of rainbow lights. He knew he should dampen it, but he was too livid to care.
“Ex...cuse me, Sen...Senseraph?”
“‘Sin angel’ is right. Damn right! What were the terms of our agreement?”
“What? You know...goodness well—” The look the angel gave him silenced that line of thought. “You requested... meals, a room. And to be...my...live-in assassin.”
“You are missing one.”
The old man’s bloodshot eyes bulged. The neon tablecloth acquired a new pink and brown pattern. Grimlak spewed again.
Jireyt took the bile as confirmation. “You remembered. ‘I will not be your heir.’ I meant it then and now. I would kill you, but I’m sure you wouldn’t give me permission to ‘touch’ you. But I’m patient.” Jireyt ran a hand over his stubble, looking content as he watched the count slowly succumb to unconsciousness.
The usual clip clop of boot heels signaled Rayn’s advance. “Jireyt! The group dances started and you’re still talking with grandfather!”
Temper flared in his eyes as he flashed his favorite blade, the monkshood. “Beware” it meant.
“If it’s about the heirship, then it was me who asked him to do it.”
Her statement was met with an icy silence. Jireyt eased himself out of the chair incredibly slowly, as if he did not want to frighten his prey. His aura burst into dulled brilliance before it settled in a thick miasma about him. The pounding of the drums seemed hesitant to invade the room.
Rayn faltered, but kept talking although shakily. “Everyone knows the prince is attracted to men, but he wouldn’t believe me.” She circled the angel and clutched the back of a chair. “I’ve known about all the murders. Although I don’t approve, it makes me glad that you’d go so far in order to secure my happiness.
“But I’m already happy with you in Mauland. I don’t need any more titles or ranks. I just want you, Jy.” Rayn pulled her white chrysanthemum-hilted dagger from her skirts. The flower meant “truth.” She replaced it and laid an arm over Grimlak who lay unconscious in his vomit. “Come, we must get grandfather home.”
This was the first time he remembered being speechless. Could a human be so naïve? He was a murderer, and it didn’t worry her. And she still loved him, despite being an angel rejected from Heaven, condemned to Earth.
The rage building inside released his throat enough for him talk, though it was a struggle. “When. When were you... planning on telling me? And why... without my consent?”
“I thought I’d tell you on our flight here, but I lost the bet, remember? Grandfather and I talked about this a few weeks ago. He must’ve thought I’d told you about being the heir then and sent it to the castle,” Rayn said, more confident.
Jireyt arched an eyebrow. His aura grew brighter and his throat tighter.
“And then the announcer yelled it for all to hear. I was going to explain to you during the dances, but you left so quickly. Please. Grandfather is ill.”
His little inconsiderate playmate, Jireyt thought. A thought blindsided him. He couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him before. Jireyt stood less than a hand-span away from Rayn.
“You want to be Lady Senseraph!”
Rayn’s eyes held the same brightness when she was a child, following him around.
Jireyt drew her into a tight, one-armed embrace, his chin resting against her forehead. He heard her sigh of relief as she hugged his waist. Rayn sighed again, choked, and sobbed. He could never stand such displays of emotion from her. The angel’s aura faded as his anger dispersed.
“I’m still far from pleased with you. Never test me again.” Jireyt released her with an exasperated sigh. “Rayn, it’s time for another game, a new curiosity. Death doesn’t have the same lure as it did that day on the beach. For the moment at least. Let’s take the old man home.”
Rayn smudged her made-up face. “Will you at least consider becoming the count of Mauland? And you’re right. I don’t want to marry anyone else. Just you.”
Count Jireyt Senseraph knew that he would tire of ruling Mauland one day. He hadn’t expected it to take thirteen years. He didn’t think Mauland would prosper under his guidance. He also didn’t think he’d still be married to Rayn. Neither did he plan on fathering two sons. He and Rayn were still figuring out that last one.
On that one day, a rather large fly flew in a window left ajar. Jireyt, who sat behind the mahogany desk in the study that used to belong to Grimlak, quickly reached out and crushed it in his palm. The smashed fly’s legs still twitched. He closed his hand again, and the fly moved no more.
Count Senseraph had not killed since the night before the Crown Prince’s Ball. Until this fat, lazy fly waltzed in. The small pinprick of pleasure the fly gave him broke the dam of domesticity that had built up around his core. He was a damned angel, superior to humans in every aspect and no amount of time could distill that out of him.
Jireyt smeared the fly on the desk as he opened the bottom drawer. He withdrew the monkshood-hilted dagger he had wrapped in cloth back when he first became count. It hadn’t rusted. He ran his thumb lightly along the blade. As he sucked his thumb, a delightful thought came to his mind. Sporadic one-hit kills bored him. That’s why he’d stopped killing.
“But I enjoy ruling over humans. How would it feel to kill for a real reason?” Jireyt mused aloud as he walked to the window, gazing at the tree he’d climbed when he was six. His sons were playing Chase, alternating between running and flight, in the side yard. Now that it was spring, they played it every chance they got. They even drafted the help into the game.
Death still interested Jireyt, but his sons gave him another reason to live. They made him proud, but they had yet to see the other side of their heritage, their angelic side. Although he loved Rayn dearly, he did not want his children raised purely human. Jireyt remembered what he’d thought back at the party. He’d settle for a continent or the world, but never a county. And he still held himself to that.
