*Cait*
The morning sun crests over the hills, casting gold light across the charred stone walls of the great hall. Smoke hasn’t clung to these stones in weeks, but I swear I can still smell it when the wind shifts just so.
Rory says it’s in my head, and perhaps he’s right.
Still, I can’t help but glance at the beams where the worst of the fire raged. We’ve lifted fresh beams, and the stone masons have replaced many of the crumbled walls.
“We’re getting there,” Rory says beside me, his voice low and rough with sleep. He’s leaning on his cane this morning, but he’s up and moving, and that’s more than I could have hoped for three months ago.
“You should be resting,” I murmur, though I don’t really mean it. I like having him beside me when we survey the damage and the progress. Althoug
