Cameron To Candy

Greg was disturbingly close. He’d bent down to eye level for dramatic effect, his shadow falling over the open pages of The Oracle of Dough.

For a split second, Candy’s mind screamed oh gludge, but she rallied fast. Her expression smoothed into polite confusion.

“Mr. Hemble,” she said evenly, “what are you doing?”

“Oh, don’t 'Mr. Hemble’ me.” His voice hardened. “You 'Candy' (said with air quotes) aren’t who you say you are.”

She shut the book carefully. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, cut the act!”

The volume carried. Marcus appeared in the doorway of the study, sleeves half rolled, quill still in hand. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Candy turned toward him, posture demure, voice measured. “Husband, your friend is saying strange things.”

Marcus glanced between them. “Well, what else is new?”

“He’s accusing me of not being real.”

Marcus’s expression shifted. “What? Greg,” Marcus said, incredulous, “that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Greg shot back. “This is the second time she’s corrected me on a story where no one else was there except me and Cameron. How did she know the commander’s name? How did she know the bird was white?”

Marcus forced a scoff. Inside, his pulse was pounding. This is bad. Talk him down. Make him feel stupid. Paddlewick honored truth. Gaslighting a friend felt like trying to juggle knives with buttered hands.

“Commanders are public knowledge,” Marcus said coolly. “And Cam probably told her the bird story.”

“No.” Greg shook his head. “Cameron would not have told that story. He swore me to secrecy. He was humiliated. There’s no way he shared it with a cousin he’s met twice and sent three letters to.”

Marcus shrugged. “So you say. And yet here we are.”

“It’s not just the bird.” Greg gestured toward Candy. “Look at her. Really look at her. It’s like someone took Cameron, handed him to an artist, and said, ‘Print this up, but make him a girl, and pretty it up.’ And boom. Candy.”

“People can look like other people. Especially when they’re cousins,” Marcus said. “Shared blood and all that. It’s how that works.”

“She's practically a copy!"

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Is that all you’ve got? She knew a story and they look alike?”

“Two stories, and... and the, the mannerisms,” Greg pressed, feeling he was losing ground but desperately pushing forward. “The way she taps her foot and crosses her arms when she’s impatient. That stupid little sword pivot Cameron used to do. Only Cameron.”

“It's a family move,” Marcus said smoothly. “Their grandfather taught them. You knew that.”

Greg stared at him. “The grandfather who died when Cam was six? Which would make her five? They mastered that move in kindergarten?”

“It’s Paddlewick,” Marcus snapped. “Everyone learns swords early.”

“And the speech,” Greg continued. “When was the last time you heard anyone under a hundred say ‘copperfisted’ besides Cam?”

“It’s a family expression,” Marcus said. “You’re reaching.”

“Am I?” Greg shot back. “No one had ever heard of her until you married her less than a year ago. Cameron never mentioned her. The only family he ever talked about was an uncle who defected to Cleavendale, and a now dead aunt who made weird soup. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, here’s a long-lost cousin. Diplomat parents. Estranged. Impossibly convenient. Come on!”

Marcus kept his tone flat. “Her parents’ work was classified. You know the Ministry. They have secrets. Lots of secrets.”

Greg barked a laugh. “Listen to yourself. She looks the same. Acts the same. Knows things she shouldn’t. And you know what, after the whole 'bird was white' thing I asked Owen to look into her. He didn't find much, then he came back and said he couldn’t dig any deeper. He told me to stop. Since when does Owen stop an investigation? Owen. Doesn't. Stop.”

Marcus held his stare. “If Owen said stop digging, then stop digging.”

“I can’t.” Greg’s jaw tightened. “I need to know Cam’s really alive. No one’s seen 'em. We’ve only had letters. They sound right, but, but something’s off. And, damn it, I think she knows why.”

He pointed at Candy. To her credit, she had played the role perfectly. She’d used formal address. She’d let Marcus lead. She hadn’t interrupted once.

Marcus took a slow breath. “Okay. What exactly are you saying, Greg? That she’s not real? That we’re imagining her? But somehow at the same time she knows where Cam is?”

“Oh, she’s real,” Greg said. “But think about it. Looks like Cam. Acts like Cam. Cam’s nowhere to be found. There’s only one explanation.”

Candy leaned forward slightly and murmured to Marcus, “It looks like he’s figured it out.”

“That’s right,” Greg said, chest swelling. “I figured it out.”

“Greg,” Marcus warned, “we can explain.”

“Explain how you’re hiding a spy?!”

Candy and Marcus froze.

“A... spy?” Marcus repeated.

“I’ve heard soldiers talk,” Greg said. “There are spies embedded in Paddlewick. Her backstory doesn’t track. She popped up out of nowhere. I bet Cam was captured and studied down to the bone to fake being his cousin. She’s a spy.”

Candy groaned and dragged a hand down her face. “I am not a spy, Greg.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Marcus said. “You need like thirteen stamps just to leave or enter the kingdom. Every border crossing is logged. Our entire ancestry is catalogued. There’s no way a spy slips in here.”

“I’ve heard the rumors,” Greg insisted.

“How?” Marcus demanded. “Walk me through it.”

“Well, uh, when we were axe throwing at the bar—”

“So drunks." Marcus intereupted. "Great source, Greg. Bored drunks making up shyte."

Greg crossed his arms. “Fine. Then there’s only one other explanation. I didn't want to believe it... it's, it's crazy, but, but..."

Candy threw up her hands. “Oh, finally.”

“You’re an insect person!”

Silence.

“What?” Marcus cried, flabbergasted.

“I’ve heard about 'em,” Greg barreled on. “They crawl into your ear, nest in your brain, eat it, take your memories. Then, when they hatch, they’re a perfect copy. Cam must've gotten lost from his platoon out there. It's happened before. And when he was sleeping in the forest, one got 'em. She’s an insect person!”

Candy stared at him. “Are you basing that on terrible scry-films?” She asked, breaking her wife phasaud.

“They’re based on real things!”

“Oh, for gods sake.” Candy cried.

"Greg, you sound insane," Marcus said.

"Maybe, but let's see how insane I am after we get ministry officials over here! Yeah, you heard me!"

Candy stood abruptly. “Screw it. I’m getting the file.”

Marcus hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t think we have much choice. Keep this idiot from running to the Ministry.”

“What file?” Greg demanded.

“You’ll see,” Marcus said. “What you’re about to read is crazy. But, well, it’s all true.”

Candy returned moments later with the folder stamped with the Level Four seal. Even Greg recognized it immediately. Second only to the King’s personal mark. He sobered.

“How do I know this is real?”

“Test it,” Marcus ordered.

Greg hesitated for a moment, then took the file from Candy and went to the scry-mirror. He placed his palm against the glass and spoke clearly.

“Mirror bright and mirror bound,

Judge the seal that here is found.

King’s mark stamped, Fourth marked line,

Tell me true if this is fine.”

The mirror shimmered. Silver script rippled across its surface.

“Seal confirmed by lawful thread.

Authorized, as clearly read.

Probe no deeper. Seek no more.

Honor bound by Level Four.”

The glass went still. Greg swallowed. Now Owen’s reaction made sense. He returned slowly and set the file on the table.

Candy met his eyes. “I give you permission to open it. But you cannot tell anyone. If you do, the ministry will take you.”

“You can still walk away,” Marcus prompted.

“How the hell could I walk away?” Greg demanded.

He opened it. His brows drew together as he scanned the contents. He read about the change, the rewritten backstory and new geniology. He pressed through the Ministry involvement and the forced marriage. He looked up once, then back down again. He kept reading, whole paragraphs about identity reconstruction, compliance protocols, behavior adjustment, and sex compliance. There were coordination notes from healers, signatures from priests, and assessments from mages. His face softened. His mouth twitched in disbelief. He read a section twice. Then a third time.

“This is real? Really real?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Marcus said.

Greg closed the folder slowly and stepped closer, not aggressive now, or accusatory, just studying her. His eyes searched her face the way a man looks at a battlefield map, trying to decide if it’s familiar ground or a trap. He looked at her eyes last. They were Cameron’s, no question. The same green, the same stubborn crease at the outer corners when she held still.

“Bud?” he asked, quizzically.

The word didn’t boom this time. It barely carried. Candy’s heart was hammering so hard she was certain he could see it in her throat. She held his gaze.

“Yeah, Big Guy,” she said softly. “It’s me.”

There it was. She watched him like someone watching a fuse burn down toward powder. She was ready for the recoil. Ready for revulsion. Ready for him to step back and say this was wrong, this was twisted, that she was a freak and that this wasn’t the friendship he'd signed up for. She’d braced for rejection.

For grief.

For disgust.

For him to leave.

His eyes moved over her face again, slower this time. Searching for something only he could recognize. Something no seal or file could verify. His eyes kept coming back to hers. The silence stretched. Her stomach dropped another inch. And then...

His mouth twitched. Just a little. Then a bit more. Then the sound came out of him like a cannon misfiring. A bark of laughter. Then another. Then a full, helpless, body-shaking roar. Every dire possibility was shattered at once. He doubled over, pointing at Candy and craning his neck toward Marcus.

“Marcus! Marcus!” he wheezed in delight. “Cam’s got tits!”

Candy’s jaw dropped.