Inked In Crimson #2 (She)

The night is chilling, and the lamps in houses outside are being swallowed by the darkness, one by one. I have finished my job for today. I find myself dwelling on where this week has taken me.

The memory of that first evening sets my heart into a flutter of excited thumps for more than one reason.

It was a bold adventure. Perhaps you won't think it requires courage to venture into a Union camp in Union territory, carrying some harmless medicine. However, this is wartime- when there is scarcely action without carefully deliberated intention. How easily I chanced upon the conversation between two gruff, cardboard-stiff voices who did not care to lower their tones behind a flimsy wooden door! I did not understand much, but I now know how I can help bring down the Union. The enemy is like a tower stacked too high, and the Confederacy needs information to topple it. The Confederacy needs women who rise to their duty.

I was shy and uninvolved as all the other young ladies, embroidering quilts and meeting young men, until I got talking with a bold Confederate spy. We grew to trust each other, and it was a long while before she decided to trust me with details, or even mentions, of her work. It did not take much longer for me to realize that it was the path for me. Our status, our way of life is at stake. You may not agree with me- you may call me an enemy of humanity. Blame my upbringing, a childhood spent mostly in one room of one sprawling manor- but I believe that there is no way the Union can force us into conforming to their laws. No risk is too great for me now- it serves only as a little excitement, a little satisfaction.

However, I can't say my daring endeavor was the only time my pulse quickened and breath froze that evening. The second moment it happened was when you stopped me and, in a voice that made me think of an ax slicing through smooth, strong wood, asked me my name.

I knew right then, Daniel Adams, that it would not be our only meeting. I returned the next day- you were waiting for a nurse, and I asked a woman nearby whether I could not help out. She said she didn't mind- the more helping hands, the better. It was a busy day. I'm not keen on treating the enemy, but humanity beckons at times. I was oddly satisfied that day- besides, one of your men let slip words that I committed to memory- 'Over the bridge, when they are least expecting it, and cannons just across the river,'- just what I needed.

Yet that was not all. I think back to the dinner last night- soldiers, locals, all celebrating a battle your side won. It was anything but a celebration to me, but my duty, my charade, and perhaps something else drew me to the event. The recognition in your eyes was evident. I spoke to you perhaps more than any of the other young men present. You seemed innocent as a child, but were vigilant as a hawk, rarely letting anything of importance escape your lips. It does not deter me. It is not difficult to get soldiers to talk. Men get drunk on conversation when their only companions are battlefields and muskets. Even the best sometimes let down their guard.

Being a spy requires patience until the right opportunity arrives.

I will wait any span of time for the right moment with you.