There is a summer cold in Chez Lane, we fear. Been dealing with that all day, not to mention more naps than usual.
I’m not going to lie. Mary-Jo Carter barely had to sell me on the expedition. She gave me the whole pitch anyway.
“Lost Atlanta is one of the few major cities on the Eastern Seaboard that hasn’t been picked over, or fully destroyed.” Carter looked barely old enough to be a Congressman’s aide, let alone a Congressman herself, but the rules were different in Kentucky. She certainly sounded like she knew what she was talking about. “The post-Discovery plagues bit very hard there, and there were a cluster of thaumaturgical spikes that disrupted recovery efforts, at just the worst time. That would make it valuable, on general principles.” She smiled, for a moment looking even younger. “But there’s also a special prize to be won.”
I considered the wine rack with a critical eye. We were having this meeting in my family’s Potomac river-house, which is a lot fancier than it sounds. I may be so far down the line of succession that my name was simply scribbled on the back of the page somewhere, but I was certainly welcome to use House Barod’s various manors. Within reason, obviously. The family wouldn’t care if I popped open another house red, but I’d have to pay to replace any of the really good vintages.
… House Barod? So Morgan started a dynasty, did he?
Mayyyyybe.