CH173 · Rewrite
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Chapter 173: Irene’s Wish

The walk home from the castle, Ferlin noticed, was more dancing than walking.

He had watched Irene arrange her expression carefully through the meeting, watched her wait for the right moment to respond to Roland’s offer with appropriate composure, watched that composure hold exactly long enough for them to exit the reception hall. Then, on the street, it had dissolved into something he hadn’t seen on her face since their wedding day.

He fell a step behind and let her have it.

At home, she retreated to the scripts with a candle and didn’t look up again.

He cooked — meat porridge, fried eggs, sausage, because it was the kind of day that deserved something deliberate for dinner. The kitchen here had a separate room for the stove, built into the wall with a chimney connection and a baffle plate that could seal when the cooking was done. He had been thinking about this design since he first saw it, turning its implications over: no smoke in the living room, no summer heat buildup, no smell bleeding through the house all day. Small, but the accumulation of small things that worked was what made a house a home rather than a building you slept in.

He called her for dinner. She came, ate without really tasting it, and went back to the scripts.

He read the first two after she fell asleep over the third. Cinderella first — a prince and a peasant girl, the logic of hereditary rank somehow less than the logic of love. The good fairy was a witch. He read that detail twice, set the book down, considered it. Picked it up again. The Rooster Crows at Midnight: serfs reaching the end of their endurance, a minor lord getting put in a bag, a passing witch interceding, and at the end, a wise foreign lord purchasing the serfs’ freedom.

He was still thinking about both when the candle Irene had been reading by guttered and she looked up.

“How are they?” he asked.

Cinderella,” she said, “the prince loves a peasant girl, and the most remarkable part isn’t the love — it’s that he doesn’t waver. Not once. The whole story I was expecting the moment where it breaks, where practical reality forces the compromise, and it never comes.” She looked at the wall, not at him, working through it. “And then when he finds her again and puts the crystal shoe on her foot — the whole scene, I couldn’t help wanting to applaud. In the theater, the entire house would applaud.”

“And the second?”

“Simpler. Two or three scenes for the whole arc, probably. But that scene—” She meant the serfs. He had known she would mean the serfs. “—reading it, something breaks open. You can feel them deciding. Not anger, something quieter and more final. And then when the noble comes for them—” She pressed both hands flat on the table. “The theater would erupt.

Ferlin had been thinking the same thing. No noble audience in Border Town. No pressure from the titled class. The audience would be common people, workers, former serfs themselves — people who would see their own history on that stage and hear it described as the right thing, the justified thing, the thing that should have happened sooner.

Roland intended these plays as ideology, he thought. He had always intended them that way.

“Ferlin.” Irene set the third script down and looked at him directly. “The third one is something else.”

“Scroll wrote it?”

“With His Highness, I think. But the voice—” She shook her head. “Three witches. Three starting points. The story follows each of them in sequence, but their choices affect each other without them knowing it, until they finally meet and then face the Church together.” She picked the book up again, turned it over in her hands. “I don’t know another writer in the kingdom who has written this way. Even Kadin Faso—”

Kadin Faso,” Ferlin said, and she fixed him with a look.

“Even Kadin Faso. His Rose and his Prince stories are beautiful and they are finished by the time they arrive — everything in its place, nothing left to discover. This story makes you feel, reading it, that something is still happening. That it hasn’t closed.” She was quiet for a moment. “The third witch. Her parents find out and they don’t abandon her. Her father spends everything he has to protect her. And because of their care, she’s able to develop her ability fully, and eventually she discovers that the demonic bite was — was never real. It’s a lie. It was always a lie.”

Ferlin put the book down.

“He isn’t afraid of the Church coming,” he said.

“No.” Irene looked at him. “Ferlin. What if it were me? If I became a witch—”

“You could never be evil,” he said. Immediately. No hesitation on this.

“And our daughter?”

He saw what she was doing, and saw it clearly: not an abstract argument but a specific test, asked at a specific moment, with a specific answer required. He thought about the father in the third story — the knight who knelt in front of his daughter’s ability and did not flinch.

He got down on one knee.

“If I were that father,” he said, “I would be exactly what he was.”

Irene smiled. Not the theater smile, not the public smile. The one he had married.

“That’s the right answer,” she said. She stood. “I think we can try now.”

He stood with her and, without particularly planning to, said: “As you bid, my dear,” which he had never said before in his life and which sounded, to his own ear, exactly correct, and picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

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