Chapter 154 Under Construction
Bella
A few days into it, the castle stops feeling like a place you pass through and starts feeling like something under construction. It's not pure chaos, just small changes that stack up while you’re busy elsewhere. A bench appears along the inner wall, where there was none before. The sound of hammering drifts through open windows and then fades again. Someone drags a coil of rope across the courtyard stones, leaving a pale scrape like a marker. I notice it between sentences. I’m back in my office with the door cracked, chair angled so I can see the light shift across the floor as the day moves. Writing still claims the mornings, the way Red promised it would. No one knocks unless it matters. No one drifts in with questions. Even Ashlyn respects it, which feels like a miracle worth noting. I write until my fingers ache. The pages are better today. There are fewer papers crumpled on the floor, and one paragraph I don’t hate. I don’t look up right away when I hear Damien coming.
“You’re still writing, snowflake?” he asks.
“I’m winning,” I reply.
I finally glance up. He’s already shed his coat, sleeves rolled, hands marked with faint smudges of ash and dust that weren’t there this morning. He leans against the doorframe, casual in the way he never used to be, like this place belongs to him in a different way now.
“How bad is it out there?” I ask.
He shrugs. “They’re enthusiastic.”
“That’s a polite word.”
“It’s the one I’m using.”
I push back from the desk and stand, stretching my arms overhead until my shoulders loosen. Damien’s eyes track the movement without comment.
“Walk with me,” he says.
I grab my scarf and follow him out. The courtyard is louder than it was yesterday. People move with purpose, carrying planks and measuring lengths of rope.
“They’re getting ahead of themselves,” I say.
“They’re keeping their hands busy,” Damien replies. “It helps.”
We cross the yard slowly. At the far end, a group of children sit on the steps, legs dangling, watching the work with serious expressions. Gilfred is in the middle of them, sprawled like a king among subjects, accepting attention with lazy blinks.
One of the kids looks up when we approach. “He followed us back,” she says, pointing at Gilfred.
“I believe that was his plan,” I answer.
Gilfred chirps once, offended at the implication that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. I crouch and tap the stone beside me. He crawls over without hesitation and climbs onto my knee, warm and solid, tail flicking once before he settles.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I tell him.
He closes his eyes.
Damien watches, mouth twitching. “He’s taking his responsibilities seriously.”
“I see that.”
We leave him there with the children when someone calls for them to move along. Gilfred opens one eye as if to argue, then decides the sun is worth the sacrifice and stays put. We walk the inner corridor next. The walls echo faintly with footsteps. Someone has stacked folded cloth near one of the alcoves. Another bench has appeared beneath a window, the wood still pale and unfinished.
“This wasn’t here yesterday,” I say.
“No,” Damien replies. “It will be tomorrow too.”
We stop near the stairwell that leads up toward the private rooms. He leans his shoulder against the stone and looks at me fully now.
“You holding?” he asks.
I nod. “Better than I thought.”
“Good.”
“That was not a question you asked lightly,” I say.
His gaze flicks away for half a second, then back. “No.”
I reach out and straighten the cuff of his sleeve where it’s come loose, fingers brushing warm skin.
“They’re not sending me mad yet,” I say. “Red’s doing a good job.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s been waiting to hear that. “She is.”
A runner appears at the far end of the hall, skids to a stop when he sees Damien, and bows quickly.
“Your Majesty. Marius asks if you have a moment.”
Damien nods. “I’ll come.”
The runner glances at me, uncertain.
“I’ll go back to my office,” I say. “I’m not done yet.”
Damien hesitates, then lifts his hand and brushes his knuckles along my jaw, quick and grounding.
“Call if you need me,” he says.
“I will.”
He leaves with the runner. I watch until they disappear around the corner, then turn back the way I came.
The castle feels different when I walk through it alone now. I pause at a window overlooking the outer path. Two men are clearing stones along the slope's edge, stacking them neatly to one side. The path curves gently upward, and I know without seeing it that it leads toward the place Damien showed me. They're creating a safe path home for us after the day is done. I don’t look too long. That feels like trespassing on something that isn’t meant to be seen yet. Back in my office, I close the door and sit again. The drawer waits. I pull it open and spread the pages out across the desk. I have three drafts now. One older than the others, edges softened from handling. I don’t read them straight through. I scan, circle one sentence, and leave the rest alone. Outside, the sounds drift in again; the hammering fades; voices drift closer, then away. The castle breathes around me, steady and alive. A knock comes later, and Ashlyn slips in without waiting, holding a length of ribbon that she probably stole.
“Do you have a minute?” she asks.
“For you? Always.”
She perches on the edge of the desk, swinging her feet.
“They’re arguing about where the long tables go,” she says. “I told them to stop asking me.”
“Wise.”
She studies me for a beat. “You look… settled.”
I snort. “I don’t know about that.”
“No,” she says, thoughtful. “You do.”
She hops down, drops the ribbon on my desk, and grins. “Anyway. Red says the dressmaker will be back in a few days.”
I nod. “That sounds right.”
Ashlyn pauses at the door. “Hey. You’re doing good.”
I don’t answer that. I smile, and when she leaves, I return to the page. By late afternoon, the light has shifted enough that I have to move the chair to keep it off my eyes. I write another paragraph. Tear one page cleanly in half, discard it, and keep the rest. When I finally step outside again, the yard looks different from the way it did this morning. Lantern ropes have been threaded through the hooks, loose ends tied off for later. The bench beneath the wall has been sanded smooth. Damien stands near the centre of it all, listening to someone explain something with animated hands. He catches sight of me and stills, attention shifting without effort. I lift my hand in a small wave. He smiles, just a little and the world keeps moving around us and somehow, it feels like it’s moving in the right direction.