The harbor at Portsmouth didn't smell like the sea. It smelled of tar, wet wool, and aggressive empire.
I stood on the cobblestones, the wind whipping my hair across my face.
Before me lay the Wooden Wall of England.
Two hundred ships. Ships of the line. Frigates. Transports. Their masts choked the sky like a dead forest.
"Magnificent, isn't it?"
William Pitt stood beside me. He wore a heavy wool coat and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"The armada of liberation," Pitt said, sweeping his hand toward the water. "Ready to restore your throne, Your Majesty."
I looked at the soldiers marching up the gangplanks.
They wore red coats. Or the blue of Hessian mercenaries.
I counted. One French Royalist for every fifty British regulars.
"This isn't a liberation," I said, my voice flat. "It's a hostile takeover."
Pitt chuckled. "Semantics, Charles. You provide the legitimacy. We provide the steel."
He placed a hand on my shoulder. It felt heavy, like a shackle.
"Come. There is something you must see before we board."
We walked down the quay.
Dockworkers were loading crates onto a transport ship. They moved with unusual caution. The crates were long, like coffins.
I stopped.
On the side of the nearest crate, burned into the wood, was a symbol.
A snake eating its own tail. The Ouroboros.
My stomach turned over.
"That's not a British mark," I said.
"It's a consultant's mark," Pitt said smoothly. "A very clever man. He has provided us with... unique munitions."
"Cagliostro," I whispered.
"He calls himself the Count," Pitt shrugged. "I don't care about his title. I care about his chemistry."
He signaled to a sergeant. "Bring one to the dunes. The King wants a demonstration."
We walked away from the ships, out to the sandy expanse of the testing range.
The wind was stronger here. It howled off the Channel.
The sergeant and two privates set up a metal tripod in the sand. They hauled a long metal tube from the crate.
It looked crude. A six-foot iron cylinder attached to a long wooden stabilizing stick.
"The Congreve Rocket," Pitt announced. "Or rather, the prototype."
"Rockets are toys," I said. "Fireworks for birthdays. They have no range. No accuracy."
"These are not toys," Pitt said.
The sergeant lit a slow match. He touched it to the fuse at the base of the iron tube.
HISSS.
Smoke poured out. Sparks showered the sand.
Then, a sound tore the air apart.
SCREEEEEEEECH.
It sounded like a woman screaming in a burning building.
The rocket launched. It didn't fly straight. It corkscrewed, leaving a trail of thick, black smoke.
It arched over the dunes.
It slammed into the target—a mock wooden farmhouse built three hundred yards away.
BOOM.
It wasn't a normal explosion.
Green fire erupted. It splashed like liquid. It clung to the wood.
The house didn't just burn. It melted. The flames roared with a hungry, chemical intensity.
"Greek Fire," I said, stepping back. "Napalm."
"A proprietary blend," Pitt smiled. "Imagine a thousand of these raining down on Paris. Panic. Chaos. The mob will surrender before a single soldier lands."
"It's a war crime," I said.
"It's efficiency."
The sergeant was setting up a second rocket.
"Target the second structure!" the sergeant shouted. "Range: four hundred yards! Elevation: forty-five degrees!"
I looked at the wind. I looked at the angle of the tripod.
My mind engaged. The variables slotted into place.
Wind speed: 15 knots, crosswind. Drag coefficient: High. Thrust: Variable.
"You'll miss," I said.
The sergeant ignored me. He reached with the match.
"Stop!" I barked. It was the voice I used on the playground. The voice of command.
The sergeant froze. He looked at Pitt.
Pitt nodded. "Listen to the boy."
I walked up to the tripod. The heat radiating from the iron tube was intense.
"The wind is pushing south," I said. "And your stabilizer stick is warped. If you fire at forty-five degrees, the drag will stall it at three-fifty."
I grabbed the adjustment crank.
"Adjust three degrees north," I said, twisting the metal. "Elevation down to forty-two."
"That's too low, sir," the sergeant protested. "It won't reach."
"Physics doesn't care about your opinion," I said.
I stepped back. "Fire."
The sergeant lit the fuse.
SCREEEEEEEECH.
The rocket screamed into the sky. It fought the wind. It banked hard.
For a second, it looked like it would fall short.
Then it dipped. A perfect parabolic arc.
CRASH.
Dead center.
The roof of the second hut exploded in a fountain of purple fire.
The soldiers stared.
Pitt looked at me. His expression had changed. The condescension was gone. In its place was fear.
"Who taught you ballistics?" Pitt asked quietly.
"The man you're trying to kill," I said.
I turned away from the burning wreckage. "I've seen enough. I'm cold."
We walked back to the docks.
The "Wooden Wall" loomed over us. The flagship, HMS Victory, sat in the center berth. It was a floating fortress. One hundred and four guns.
"You will travel on the Victory," Pitt said. "My personal cabin is prepared for you."
"I need to send a message," I said. "To my tailor in London. I left my coat."
"We have coats on board," Pitt said dismissively. He turned to speak to an admiral.
I slipped my hand into my pocket.
My fingers brushed the cold metal of the portable telegraph.
I needed to warn him. Not about the invasion—he would expect that. But about the rockets. About the chemical fire.
Alex Miller could fight an army. He couldn't fight a firestorm.
I drifted behind a stack of barrels.
I pulled out the device. I wrapped the copper wire around a loose nail in the dock piling—a makeshift ground.
I tapped the key.
Click... click...
A hand clamped over my wrist.
It wasn't Pitt.
It was Mrs. Graves. The sour-faced nanny Pitt had assigned to "care for my needs."
Her grip was iron.
"Naughty," she whispered.
She didn't sound like a nanny. Her voice was like grinding stones.
She squeezed.
I gasped. My bones ground together. My fingers opened involuntarily.
The telegraph fell into the mud.
Mrs. Graves raised her boot.
CRUNCH.
She stomped on the delicate machine. Gears shattered. Glass broke.
She grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back. She leaned close.
Her eyes were dead. No pupils. Just black pools.
"The Watchmaker sends his regards, Little King," she hissed.
"You work for him," I choked out. "You're a traitor."
"I am a Harlequin," she smiled. Her teeth were filed to points. "And you are the worm on the hook."
She twisted my arm behind my back. Pain shot up to my shoulder.
"You want to warn your father?" she whispered in my ear. "Go ahead. Scream. Tell Pitt I'm a monster. Who will he believe? The Prime Minister needs Cagliostro's rockets. He doesn't need a hysterical boy."
She shoved me forward.
"Walk," she ordered. "And if you try to signal anyone again, I will peel the skin off your fingers. One by one."
I stumbled onto the gangplank of the HMS Victory.
I looked back at the dock. The remains of my telegraph lay in the mud, crushed and useless.
The ship swayed beneath my feet.
They led me to the Admiral's cabin. It was luxurious. Mahogany furniture. Velvet curtains.
Mrs. Graves shoved me inside.
"Enjoy the voyage," she said. "It's a one-way trip."
The heavy oak door slammed shut. The lock clicked.
I ran to the window. The stern gallery looked out over the wake.
The sails were dropping. The great ship groaned as it began to move.
I watched the English coast recede.
I was a prisoner on my own invasion fleet. Surrounded by enemies. Guarded by a monster. Heading toward a father who had abandoned me.
I looked at the white foam churning in the water.
The rockets. The Greek Fire.
If those hit Paris, the city would burn. The Tuileries would be a crematorium.
I closed my eyes. I pictured the map of the Channel.
Distance: 200 miles. Wind: South-Southwest. Speed: 8 knots.
I opened my eyes.
"He'll calculate the trajectory," I whispered to the glass.
My father was the Administrator. He saw every variable. He had to see this one.
"Don't die yet, Papa," I said, pressing my hand against the cold pane. "I haven't balanced the ledger."
The Victory turned its bow toward France.
Toward the fire.