Chapter Twenty
The wine arrived three days late. Finn stood in the loading dock, staring at thirty cases of imported Montclaire that should have been in the wine cellar since Tuesday.
Instead, they’d sat at the east service entrance - which nobody used because it was under renovation - gathering dust while Finn tore through inventory lists trying to track them down.
“But the delivery instructions were clear,” Gordon said, holding up the manifest. “West entrance, wine cellar storage, attendant signature required.”
Finn took the paper and scanned it. His own handwriting marked the top: West entrance - usual delivery point. Below that, someone had added in different ink: Change to east entrance per consort’s request.
“I never requested that.”
“Of course not, Your Grace.” Gordon frowned at the notation. “Perhaps the delivery coordinator misunderstood?”
“Misunderstood what? I wrote ‘west entrance’ right here.”
Gordon made a noncommittal sound. “I’ll speak to them. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Finn folded the manifest and shoved it in his pocket.
Three days. The Montclaire was for the welcome banquet, specifically chosen because Queen Valdis had mentioned in her correspondence that she appreciated fine vintages.
Now he’d have to hope three days in an unheated service entrance hadn’t damaged it.
He returned to his office and added verify wine quality to his endless list of tasks. The list had grown to three pages. The summit started in twelve days.
Twelve days to get everything perfect.
/~/~/~/~/
The invitation error appeared two days later. Helena arrived at Finn’s office holding three pieces of correspondence, her expression carefully neutral. “The delegations from Surmont, Kellwick, and Ashford have all sent queries about the summit dates.”
Finn’s stomach clenched. “What queries?”
“They received invitations listing the summit as beginning on the fourteenth. Our official announcement said the sixteenth.”
“That’s impossible. I checked those invitations myself before they went out.” Finn crossed to his desk, pulled out his master copy. Sixteenth. Clearly marked. “Show me.”
Helena handed him the correspondence. All three delegations quoted the same wrong date - the fourteenth.
“I don’t understand.” Finn rifled through his files and found his draft of the invitation text. Sixteenth. “This is what I wrote. This is what I approved.”
“Perhaps there was a transcription error when the printer received the final copy?”
“I delivered the final copy myself.” Finn’s hands shook slightly as he set the letters down. “I watched the printer review it. The date was correct.”
Helena watched him with that careful expression she wore when dealing with something delicate. “These things happen, Finn. We’ll send corrections immediately. No harm done.”
Except there was harm. Three delegations now thought Safe Harbor couldn’t manage basic correspondence. Three delegations that would arrive at the summit already questioning Safe Harbor’s competence.
“I’ll draft the corrections,” Finn said.
“I can have someone…”
“I’ll do it myself.”
After Helena left, Finn stared at the invitations for a long time. He’d been so careful and triple-checked every detail. How had this happened?
Maybe Trent was right. Maybe the pressure was making him sloppy.
/~/~/~/~/
The furniture arrived wrong on Thursday – supposedly the day he was meant to spend with his husband, but there was still too much to do.
Finn stood in one of the guest suites, watching workers attempt to maneuver an absolutely enormous bed through the doorway.
The bed was designed for a room twice the size.
The chairs were child-sized. The wardrobe wouldn’t fit through the door at all.
“Where are the specifications I submitted?” Finn asked the furniture master.
The man produced a document. “Right here, Your Grace. This is what we built.”
Finn scanned it, and he felt ice creep down his spine. They weren’t his specifications. The measurements were completely wrong. Someone had changed them after he’d submitted the order.
“When did you receive this?”
“Three weeks ago. We worked from your amended instructions, exactly as written.”
“I never amended anything.”
The furniture master shifted uncomfortably. “The work order shows modifications dated two weeks after your initial submission, marked ‘per King Consort’s corrections.’”
“Show me.”
The man produced another document. There, in handwriting that could almost pass for Finn’s if someone wasn’t paying close attention, were detailed changes to every measurement. Someone had deliberately sabotaged the order.
“Your Grace?” Gordon appeared in the doorway. “Is everything alright?”
“The furniture’s wrong. All of it.” Finn handed him the documents. “Someone changed my specifications.”
Gordon reviewed the papers carefully. “This isn’t your handwriting.”
“I know that. But proving it won’t get us new furniture in time for the summit.” Finn rubbed his temples, felt a headache building behind his eyes. “We’ll have to use existing pieces from storage. Work with the furniture master to pull appropriate items for all the guest suites.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
After they left, Finn sank onto one of the ridiculous child-sized chairs and put his head in his hands. The wine. The invitations. Now this. Each incident individually could be dismissed as accident or oversight. Together, they painted a picture of someone who couldn’t handle basic logistics.
Someone incompetent.
Someone who didn’t belong.
You’re just stressed, he told himself. Making silly mistakes. You need to be more careful.
/~/~/~/~/
The file disappeared on Saturday. Finn tore through his office for the third time, checking every drawer, every shelf, every surface. The folder on Queen Valdis - the most important, most detailed file he’d compiled - had simply vanished.
“Gordon!” His voice came out sharper than he intended.
His assistant appeared within seconds. “Your Grace?”
“The Valdis file. The red folder with all her preferences, dietary requirements, and the briefing on her kingdom’s current political situation. Have you seen it?”
“Not since yesterday afternoon. You had it on your desk when I left.”
Finn stared at the desk. He’d been reviewing that file last night before bed, memorizing details about Valdis’s elaborate protocols and particular requirements. He’d definitely put it back in the red folder. And he always filed the red folders in the top drawer of his desk.
The drawer was empty.
They searched for two hours. Gordon methodically worked through every possible location while Finn became increasingly frantic.
The summit started in ten days. Queen Valdis arrived in eight.
That file contained everything he needed to avoid offending Safe Harbor’s most difficult and influential guest.
“The storage closet,” Gordon said suddenly. “The one near the records room. Sometimes items get misfiled there.”
Finn had never even been to that closet. He followed Gordon down two hallways to a small, dimly lit space filled with shelves of old documents and supplies. Gordon pulled items aside, searching, until…
“Here.” He extracted a red folder from between a box of old tax records and someone’s forgotten ledgers.
Finn grabbed it, flipped it open. His notes. His carefully compiled information on Queen Valdis. Relief flooded through him, immediately followed by confusion.
“I’ve never been in this closet. How did it get here?”
Gordon’s expression was troubled. “Your Grace, I don’t mean to overstep, but...you’re the most organized person I’ve ever met. You don’t just misfile things. You certainly don’t misfile them in storage closets you’ve never visited.”
“Then how…”
“I don’t know.” Gordon met his eyes steadily. “But something isn’t right.”
Finn wanted to argue. Wanted to insist he’d simply made a mistake, that the stress was affecting his usually reliable memory. But Gordon was right. He’d built his entire life on being organized and reliable. Even under pressure, he didn’t lose critical files.
So how had one of his most important files ended up in a closet he hadn’t even known existed?
/~/~/~/~/
“Someone’s sabotaging you,” Jericho said flatly.
They sat in Finn’s office that evening, door closed, Finn having just finished recounting every incident. The wine. The invitations. The furniture. The missing file.
“I thought that, but surely that’s just me being paranoid.”
“It’s logical.” Jericho ticked items off on his fingers. “Deliveries redirected. Documents altered. Files moved. Each incident designed to make you look incompetent right before the most important event of Darragh’s reign.”
“Why would anyone sabotage the summit? It would hurt Safe Harbor.”
“They’re not sabotaging the summit. They’re sabotaging you specifically.” Jericho leaned forward. “Someone wants you to fail. They want to prove you’re unsuitable for this position.”
Finn’s stomach churned. “Who would do that?”
“Who opposed your marriage most vocally?”
“Aldric. Thomas. Helena initially, though she’s come around.” Finn shook his head. “But they wouldn’t…they care about Safe Harbor. About Darragh.”
“Maybe they think they’re protecting both by proving you’re the wrong choice.”
The idea made Finn feel sick. Not just because someone might be actively working against him, but because if they were succeeding, didn’t that prove they were right?
“I’m just stressed,” Finn insisted. “That must be it. I’m making stupid mistakes. I need to be more careful.”
“You don’t make these kinds of mistakes.”
“How would you know? You’ve never seen me under this kind of pressure.”
Jericho’s expression softened. “I’ve seen you coordinate entire village renovations with half the budget and twice the complications. I’ve seen you manage Winrone’s harvest logistics when Father was sick. You don’t fall apart under pressure, Finn. You get more organized, not less.”