Cadan needed help getting ready for bed but was already moving far more easily than he had in the bath house. They lay together in the dark, aware of each other, and their own bruises and hurts, sleep elusive.

He murmured. “You’ve still never told me why you hate being called ‘Ellie’.”

Eleanor sighed. “When I started school in Gandry, none of the others had met me before, and when they discovered I lived on the docks, I became ‘Smelly Ellie’. They would giggle and shriek and hold their noses against the ‘fishy river stink’ any time I came near. It only stopped when Cecily Silversmith’s mother found out what my father’s name was and ordered her to be nice to me.”

Cadan shuffled closer; he was lying on his stomach instead of curled on his side as he usually did. He draped an arm across her stomach and said. “I think you smell nice.”

Eleanor smiled and shifted closer in turn. “Papa said they were just jealous because I already knew more about reading and writing than any of them.”

She sighed. “But all that lot ever cared about was his wealth and influence.”

His words were slurred with sleep. “They’re stupid. I’m not.”

She peered through the dark but couldn’t see his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her only answer was soft, even breathing. She rested her hand on his arm and followed him into dreamless rest.

They both woke late the next morning, stiff and sore, and hobbled out to take a fresh day’s view of the damage. Cadan was whisked off by the group setting off to assess the Castle bridge, despite the sling easing pressure on his shoulder.

Samuel collared Eleanor as an assistant scribe, making lists of missing or damaged items and handing them to Ingrid to try and mix, match, and consolidate for the looming trip to Gandry.

The following day was much the same, with more cleaning, and the day after that followed the same pattern again. The evenings were spent repairing clothes, and the nights waking Cadan from nightmares.

The forest workshop played on her mind constantly, a puzzle with a missing piece she couldn’t get to. The printing press loomed in her daydreams, the Sundarian print masters produced books unlike any other; crisp, clear text, on smooth pages, and undercut their Clearfall, Sun Empire and Scattered Isles competitors on cost every time. If the secret to that capability was gathering dust and rust in a back-forest clearing, it was her duty as a book lover and merchant to bring it to light.

It was a week before she was able to get back there, and even then, people grumbled. Curiously, Evan Smith wasn’t one of them, but then, Eleanor did volunteer to re-stock and clean the place.

Most of the clean-up work had been done and the tasks to bring the mill, gardens and castle bridge back to working order listed. Now the villagers were arguing over who to send to Gandry for the food, tools and metal they needed to complete the list and see the village through winter.

Cadan had spent most of his days with the group at the bridge. As they trundled a small handcart along the narrow path to the Old Master’s hut, he told her. “It’s safe enough to cross now, but only one person at a time. No horses, no wagons. The castle folk have their hands full with the road from the High Ranges Pass, there’s been rockfalls and gully floods all along, so the bridge is up to us.”

Eleanor frowned. “But why? I mean, yes, it’s the right thing to do, but the villagers don’t actually need to get to the castle.”

“Most people have family members serving there, like Sarah and Matthew’s Gwen, and things do come down out of the High Ranges sometimes, especially in winter. Things that don’t mind swimming cold rivers. The castle guard keep us safe, least we can do is make sure they can get supplies delivered.”

They arrived at the clearing and Eleanor increased her pace, ignoring Cadan’s chuckle. “Pity the Old Master’s gone, he’d have enjoyed teaching an apprentice.”

She called back through the door. “Get me his notebooks and maybe he still can.”

Cadan brought the first armload of good from the handcart and tipped them onto the table. Eleanor sorted the odds and ends – towels, fresh healing items, candles – and put them away, stacking old pots and jars for delivery back to Sarah.

Duty done, she headed for the bulky frame of the printing press, and began to poke and prod. The mechanism itself seemed similar enough to the ones she’d seen in Gandry and Rushmouth that a printer from either place could operate it, but there was something else, something was slightly different, and she couldn’t work out what.

She joined Cadan by the fire for tea and lunch. “Why haven’t the Duchess and Duke done anything about these?”

He shrugged. “They probably don’t know. It’s not like they’re at this castle all that much, they’re mostly at Rushmouth, Plainsmont Manor, or the Court of All Nations.”

Eleanor felt strangely offended. “And what’s wrong with our castle?”

Cadan replied. “Nothing, that’s why they’re rarely here. Town, villages, and castle all run themselves very nicely. Least that’s what I heard the castle people say.”

She leaned into him and began playing with one of his hands, measuring his fingers against hers, twining them together, then apart again. He had nice hands, clever hands, she’d been finding out just how clever after his nightmares made it impossible to sleep and he used them to make her gasp and cling. She was learning to be clever with her hands too, clever enough that Cadan hadn’t had any bad dreams the night before, she’d chased them away before they slept.

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