Sònia had been worried about the convention. Her husband thought it was an opportunity, and it wasn't that she thought he was wrong, exactly, but it seemed like a dangerous sort of opportunity. Too easy to offend someone important, even if you trusted the wizard's assurances that it wasn't just an excuse to round up some people and kill them.
But it wasn't like he had a choice.
She wouldn't have tried to talk him out of it even if they had given him a choice. That wasn't really the sort of relationship they had. (And if she was being totally honest with herself, she was glad to have him out of the house for a few months. Long enough that maybe she could stop feeling stupidly, pathetically betrayed every time she remembered the aftermath of the sack. He hadn't even gone after her for breaching the terms of their marriage contract, and that was all she had any right to hope for.)
An opportunity, then. Safest to think of it that way. Safest not to let the wizard hear her worry. An opportunity, and if he played his cards right they'd be rich.
Not a week has passed when another officer of the Crown visits her home.
There are rumors that Westcrown rioted against a Thrune who'd secretly impersonated one of the dukes, and rumors that the convention is going to abolish slavery or eliminate taxes or require everyone to worship Erastil, and rumors that a group of Moloch cultists slaughtered half the convention before the archmages managed to stop them. The ports are closed, maybe to stop people from smuggling out slaves or maybe because they need to make sure that any other cultists can't flee or maybe just because the clams are waking up early. Sònia looks into hiring a teleporter for her family's slaves, just in case, but she's been outbid by people with far more wealth to throw around on short notice.
When the officer of the Crown arrives on her front step, she feels a sickening lurch at the prospect that the Moloch rumor could be true.
"Are you the next-of-kin to Livi Barro?" he asks. There's a look on his face that she can't quite place.
She inclines her head. "His wife, sir." They had a paper contract — probably the man from the Crown will tell her if he needs to know the details of the contract.
The officer of the Crown nods tightly. "This is official notice on behalf of the crown that your husband has been executed for the murder of Alonso, a halfling delegate at the convention. —The Crown has ordered that certain of his possessions be returned to you," he adds as an afterthought.
Sònia — doesn't feel anything about that, because nothing she might possibly feel would be safe. Livi would never — not a safe thought. Slips aren't — not a safe thought. Does this mean — not a safe thought.
"Understood, sir," she says. Her voice is perfectly level.
He leaves her alone, after that.
The Crown is prosecuting slip-killing as murder, now, apparently, which really seems like an indication about which way the slavery vote is going to go. Or more likely they're prosecuting support for slavery as murder, and the accusation of slip-killing is just an excuse — not a safe thought.
If it had been anyone else's husband she'd be looking into finding some way to save her livelihood, but she absolutely cannot afford any chance of being viewed as a traitor after what they did to him. Sònia knows how to live in Cheliax. You keep your head down, you don't do anything that could draw the notice of Church or Crown, you certainly don't try to get clever about it. And maybe it's enough and you live, or maybe the Crown declares you guilty of murder.
She goes back upstairs. She informs the slips that she's granting them the next several days off work. She orders her children to never, ever speak of their father. It is not sufficient to be careful; they must be perfect. But if they are perfect, they might still escape the Crown's notice.
On Moonday slavery is outlawed. She does not dare permit herself to have any sort of emotions about this.
