Chapter Fourteen
The council chamber felt like it was closing in on Finn, the high vaulted ceiling pressing down with the weight of all the things he didn’t understand.
Aldric droned on about grain tariffs from the eastern provinces, referencing trade agreements signed during King Darragh’s grandfather’s reign, and Finn’s mind struggled to keep pace.
“...which brings us to the matter of adjusting the export taxes to compensate for the shortfall,” Aldric concluded, shuffling his papers with the air of someone who’d just explained something obvious to a room full of intelligent people.
Helena nodded. “The historical precedent supports maintaining the current rate, but we could explore a temporary reduction to encourage—”
“Wait.” Finn held up a hand, aware of how all eyes turned to him. “If we’re losing money on the exports, why would we reduce the taxes? Wouldn’t that make the problem worse?”
The silence that followed felt loaded with something Finn couldn’t quite name. Thomas’s quill stopped moving across his parchment. Helena’s expression shifted to something carefully neutral. Aldric’s eyebrows met when he frowned.
“Your Grace,” Aldric began, his tone walking the knife’s edge between respect and condescension, “the export taxes apply to goods leaving Safe Harbor. The shortfall is in our import revenue, which is an entirely separate matter governed by different treaties and…”
“Right, yes, of course.” Finn’s face burned. Imports. Exports. How did I not know the difference? “I just thought…”
“Perhaps,” Aldric continued, not unkindly but with the patience one might use with a slow student, “it would benefit Your Grace to review the fundamentals of our trade infrastructure before participating in these discussions. I’d be happy to provide some reading material.”
“That’s not necessary,” Darragh cut in, his voice sharp. “Finn asked a valid question. Not everyone grew up studying economics.”
“Of course not, Your Majesty. I merely thought…”
“I’m sure you have excellent intentions.” Darragh’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “But my husband is perfectly capable of learning as he goes.”
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 saying they 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 his aim 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…”
“I am a 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.”
After she fled, Finn stood in the middle of the sitting room, screwdriver growing heavy in his hand.
He looked down at his palms, at the calluses built up over years of honest work, at the slight scar across his thumb from that time he’d slipped with a chisel while carving a decorative panel for the village hall.
Hands that had built things, fixed things. Hands that worked to create tangible improvements to people’s lives.
What use are they now?
He set his tools on the side table and moved to the window, staring out over the castle grounds.
The gardens needed work - he could see loose stones in the pathway, a section of trellis pulling away from the wall, and the roof tiles on the eastern wing that sat at odd angles.
His fingers itched to grab a hammer, to climb a ladder, to do something he was actually good at.
But king consorts didn’t do that sort of work.
King consorts attended council meetings where they didn’t understand the discussions.
King Consorts reorganized laundry schedules and created disasters in the process.
King consorts, apparently, had servants who were horrified when they tried to fix a simple window latch.
In other words, king consorts were useless, or at least that’s how Finn was feeling.
The door opened again, softer this time. Finn didn’t need to turn to know it was Darragh. He’d learned to recognize his husband’s footsteps and the particular way he moved through a room.
“Gordon said you had a rough day.” Darragh’s arms wrapped around Finn from behind, his chin resting on Finn’s shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”
Finn leaned back into the embrace, taking comfort in Darragh’s solid warmth even as the words tangled in his throat. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Just try.”
“Everything I’m good at, everything I know how to do…
none of it matters here.” Finn gestured vaguely at the window, the castle, the world beyond.
“In Winrone, I knew who I was. I was useful. People needed me to fix their roofs, solve their problems, and coordinate projects. I helped people. Here, I’m just..
.decorative. Like expensive furniture nobody’s quite sure how to arrange. ”
“That’s not true.” Darragh’s voice was firm. “You’re learning…”
“Am I?” Finn pulled away, turning to face him.
“I’ve been here a week, Darragh. One week.
And I’ve already proven I don’t understand economics, don’t know how castles function, and shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions without supervision.
” He laughed, the sound bitter even to his own ears.
“Maybe your advisers were right. Maybe I’m not suitable for this. ”
“Don’t say that.” Darragh reached for him, but Finn stepped back.
“A maid just found me fixing a window latch with my own hands. She looked at me like I’d committed some kind of crime.
And maybe I had. Maybe there’s some rule here that king consorts aren’t supposed to have calluses or know which end of a screwdriver to hold.
Another rule I didn’t know.” Finn’s throat tightened.
“I don’t know how to be this person you need me to be. ”
“I need you to be you.” Darragh closed the distance between them, his hands gentle on Finn’s shoulders.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted. The person who argues with me, challenges me, sees me as Darragh instead of just the king.
You know all this. I didn’t marry you because I needed a perfectly trained consort who knows all the right protocols.
I married you because you’re a genuine person. ”
“Genuinely incompetent.” Finn tried for a smile and failed. “It’s a great combination.”
“You’re not incompetent. You’re adjusting.” Darragh’s thumb traced small circles on Finn’s shoulder. “This is a lot to take in all at once. But you’ll learn. You’ll find your footing. Give it time.”
Give it time. How much time? Weeks? Months? Years? And what if he never adjusted? What if this feeling of uselessness, of being fundamentally unsuited for this life, never went away?
“I know you’re right,” Finn said, because it was what Darragh needed to hear. “I’m just tired today. It’ll be better tomorrow.”
“That’s my Finn.” Darragh kissed his forehead, his temple, his lips. “Come to bed. You’ll feel better after some rest.”
They went through their evening routine - servants helping Finn out of his formal clothing, because apparently he couldn’t even undress himself properly without assistance.
Darragh chatted about his own day, about meetings and decisions and the constant demands of ruling a kingdom, and Finn made the appropriate sounds of interest while his mind spun in circles.
In bed, Darragh pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before his breathing evened out into sleep.
Finn lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
In Winrone, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d go for walks through the village, check on projects, and make plans for the next day’s work. Wandering the castle at night felt wrong somehow - like he needed permission to move through spaces that were technically his home but still felt foreign.
Darragh’s arm was heavy across Finn’s chest, warm and reassuring. His husband trusted him and apparently believed in him. He did choose me above everyone else. But that didn’t stop Finn’s concern that Darragh’s trust was misplaced.
Give it time, Darragh had said. But what if time didn’t fix it?
What if Finn was fundamentally wrong for his role, no matter how much time passed or how hard he tried to learn?
Loving the king was one thing - being a decent king consort was something else entirely.
Finn closed his eyes and tried to believe everything would be all right. He failed at that, too.