<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/74/Marguerite_Tuerny_14.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Marguerite Tuerny<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 4, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The Courthouse: Judge Warwick's office<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Judge Warwick, Closed<br/><hr/>Marguerite wasn't sure what to make of the proffered books.  She picked up the thicker of the two, glancing at the title.<strong><em>Commentaries on the Laws of England: Volume II The Rights of Things (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commentaries_on_the_Laws_of_England)</em></strong>by Sir William Blackstone.  That was silly!  How could things have rights?  She almost giggled at her own wit, at least for half of it.  The other book seemed even less appealing, a bound summary of court cases over ten years ago?  But not only would it be impolite to refuse the Judges generous loan, but it would be stupid as well.  She was sure the old fox was trying to tell her something important about her future.  Something he couldn't tell her directly, but was sure she could find on her own in these books.<br/><br/><strong>"Thank you."</strong>She accepted the tomes with genuine if not enthusiastic gratitude.<strong>"I don't know when I'll find time to read them, but I will certainly make...  The Prince!"</strong>She nearly pounced on the book.  She'd read it before.  Several times in fact.  Her mother had insisted, much to her confusion.  Why would a young girl need to read about blood-thirsty and immoral Italian Princes?  But Élisabeth had been firm, forcing her to not only read, but almost memorize the brief though brutal treatise instructing young rulers how best to tyrannize their subjects.  She smiled, the memories of her mother trying to instruct her, the lovely woman showing both resolve and compassion in her demands.  She hadn't understood her mother very well.<br/><br/>She paged through the volume - hardly longer than a pamphlet or a dime novel - with interest.  This was an English translation, the first that she'd seen.  The version she read was in French, her mother's personal copy.  It said a lot about her mother, she realized belatedly, that the flashing French beauty would own her own copy of this book.<strong>" Thank you."</strong>She repeated, her sincerity just as genuine as before, though more open and warmer.<strong>"Old Niccolò is a longtime friend."</strong>She laughed.<strong>"My mother made me read this, though I think I'll understand it better now."</strong><br/><br/>She considered the implications of applying Machiavelli's principles to the business of mining.  Cut-throat, in many cases she was sure quite literally.<strong>"You've given me a lot to think about."  She added.  "I need to arrange transport, find guards and laborers, broker deals, and... And find out what else I need to get the mine running."</strong>She'd quite forgotten about Alfred, so caught up was she in the details of making her future happen.  She set the book down next to her tea.<br/><br/><strong>"It's been both enlightening and a pleasure meeting you sir."</strong>She flashed him a warm, widely white and utterly devastating smile.  A smile fit to send fleets across seas or send the moon into fits of jealousy.  "<strong>I'm sure I'll see you soon.  I hope we don't have to wait until court?"</strong>She rose, offering her hand palm down.  She wasn't quite sure how to deal with handshakes - they seemed unnatural to her, but a lady could always offer her hand to a gentleman of proper acquaintance.