Finn wanted to disappear into the floor. Being defended like he was a child in need of shielding from harsh words made everything worse. He caught Thomas watching him from the corner, the youngest adviser’s expression unreadable as his quill resumed its scratching across parchment.
Helena cleared her throat, her diplomatic tone suggesting she was trying to salvage the moment. “Perhaps we could schedule some briefing sessions for His Grace? Nothing formal, just an opportunity to cover the basics at a more comfortable pace.”
The basics.Like he was starting from nothing, which, Finn supposed, he was.
“That sounds helpful,” Finn managed, his voice flat. “Thank you.”
The meeting continued, but Finn had stopped listening. It wasn’t as if any of the subjects being discussed made sense, and it was easier to just stop asking questions.
/~/~/~/~/
With the council meetings driving him to distraction, Finn had convinced himself that he could at least manage the castle operations. He’d spent years coordinating village projects,managing work schedules, and ensuring everyone had what they needed when they needed it. It was a valid excuse to give to Darragh about how he was helping with the household management - something Darragh had wanted him to take over - instead of attending council meetings, and besides, how different could managing a castle be?
Very different, as it turned out. Mrs. Donnelly stood in the doorway of the massive laundry room, her arms crossed over her ample chest, her expression carefully blank as Finn explained his new system.
“You see, if we shift the bedding rotation to Mondays and Thursdays instead of the current schedule, it creates better efficiency. The maids won’t have to rush through the morning cleaning to strip beds, and the washing can be done in larger batches.” Finn gestured to the schedule he’d drawn up, rather proud of how logical it all looked on paper. “I’ve done similar reorganizations in Winrone, and it always improves workflow.”
Mrs. Donnelly’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but the bedding schedule coordinates with when the upstairs staff can access the private chambers without disturbing the residents. If we change washing days, we’ll have to change cleaning days, which affects when the breakfast service…”
“I’m sure we can adjust those schedules too.” Finn kept his voice pleasant and confident. “The point is to work smarter, not harder. Trust me, this will make everyone’s lives easier.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Mrs. Donnelly’s curtsey was perfectly executed, but something in her tone suggested Finn had just made a mistake. “I’ll inform the staff of the new arrangements.”
Two days later, Gordon appeared at Finn’s office door, his young face creased with worry.
“Your Grace, I hate to bother you, but...” Gordon shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Mrs. Donnelly asked me to relay some concerns about the new laundry schedule.”
Finn looked up from the correspondence he’d been pretending to read - letters from nobles he’d never met, discussing matters he barely understood. “What kind of concerns?”
“Well.” Gordon pulled out a small notebook and flipped it open. “The Monday washing means the bedding isn’t dry in time for the Thursday rotation, so they’re having to use the older linens as substitutes. The Thursday washing interferes with evening meal preparation because the kitchen staff needs the same water heating facilities. The upstairs maids can’t access the private chambers during the new cleaning times because that’s when the residents are usually present, which means they’re falling behind on their other duties, which is creating problems for…”
“All right, I understand.” Finn rubbed his face.How did I not see this coming?“Tell Mrs. Donnelly to revert to the old schedule. I’ll... I’ll think of something else.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Gordon hesitated. “The staff knows you’re trying to help. They appreciate the intention.”
Which was Gordon’s kind way of sayingthey think you don’t know what you’re doing.
After Gordon left, Finn stared at his useless schedule, at his careful notes that had looked so logical in theory and proved so disastrous in practice. In Winrone, he’d known everyone’s routines, understood how each task connected to the next, and could predict how changes would ripple through the community. In the castle, he was operating blind, stumbling through systems that had been refined over generations.
Crumpling the paper in disgust, he tossed it toward the waste bin. It bounced off the rim and rolled across the floor. Even hisaim was off since being in the castle.I’d better not pick that up by myself,Finn thought as he scowled at the crumpled paper.There’s a good chance king consorts don’t do that either.
/~/~/~/~/
The window latch in their private sitting room had been sticking for days. Finn had mentioned it twice to Darragh, who’d assured him someone would fix it, but apparently, castles moved on a different timescale than village cottages. Tasks didn’t get done immediately just because someone noticed them.
Finn retrieved his tools from the bottom of his wardrobe - he’d brought them to the castle despite knowing he probably wouldn’t use them. The familiar weight of the screwdriver in his hand, the resistance of the old screw fighting against its threading, the satisfying click when the mechanism aligned properly - all of it felt like coming home.
He was tightening the final screw, testing the latch’s smooth operation, when the door opened behind him.
“Your Grace!” The young maid’s voice rose in distress. “What are you doing?”
Finn turned, tools still in hand. “The latch was broken. I fixed it.”
“But…” The girl’s face flushed crimson. “We have people for that sort of work. If something needs repairing, you’re meant to inform the household staff, and we arrange for the proper tradesmen to…”
“Iama proper tradesman.” The words came out sharper than Finn intended. “Or I was, in Winrone.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I didn’t mean…” The maid’s curtsey was so deep it looked painful. “I’ll just…I’ll be going now.”
