CH647 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 647: A Confession

Roland spent the days after Tilly’s farewell at his desk, writing.

First, the foundational courses — filling the gaps that pure memory had left ragged, replacing approximations with precision. Then the equipment: improved designs for the steam engines and machine tools already in use. He’d known, working from partial recall, that his earlier specifications were acceptable. A more rigorous design could push them toward genuinely good. There was a wide gap between acceptable and good, and it was worth closing.

Then Anna came to find him.

She’d finished the first steam turbine. Roland set everything aside and went to the backyard of North Slope at once.

They sat together at the workstation in front of it — the machine nearly six meters long, connected to an external preheating boiler and a steam boiler, its main body a great metal roller wrapped in dense impellers, the whole thing precise and colossal and somehow quiet. When coal heated it and high-pressure steam drove the spindle, it ran with far less noise and vibration than the old reciprocating engines. More efficient. Cleaner in operation. A different class of machine entirely.

This turbine was destined for Thunder’s naval expedition — a power source for a new generation of ships.

Roland wouldn’t build a second one yet. The workshop couldn’t replicate the process quickly, and Anna needed to redirect her attention toward improving the machine tools. But the first one was here, and it was real, and sitting beside it felt like sitting beside something that would change the shape of the world in ways neither of them could fully trace yet.

“How do you like it?” Anna turned and leaned into his shoulder. “I’m good, aren’t I?”

Unlike nearly anyone he’d known, she took open and uncomplicated pleasure in seeing a design become a physical object. No performance in it, no modesty. She’d built something extraordinary and she knew it. The delight in her face was genuine and complete.

“Of course you are,” Roland said. He reached over and wiped a streak of grime from her cheek with his thumb — it left a faint gray mark. “Though I’m just slightly better.”

She rolled her eyes, still smiling.

He looked at her. The blue of her eyes, clear as river water in early morning, caught the afternoon light and held it steady. And the words he’d prepared — the words he’d promised Nightingale he would say — rose to the surface again and stopped there, as they had done every time before.

Say it. Every time the moment came, something locked.

He’d been occupying himself with the books and the designs to delay this. He knew that. He’d been telling himself that preparation helped, that the right moment mattered — but these were excuses, and he’d been making them long enough that they’d stopped feeling like excuses and started feeling like reasons. Nightingale had been waiting for an answer. His silence was not neutral. It was its own kind of answer, and a worse one than the truth.

When the boilers cooled and the steam turbine stilled, Roland drew a breath and leaned close to Anna’s ear.

“Come to my bedroom tonight,” he said quietly. “We need to talk.”


Night fell. Roland sat at his desk and didn’t write a single word.

In this era, no one counts a noble’s women the way the modern world does. I’m simply following my heart. This breaks no social norm here. No one will think less of me for it.

He revolved the arguments. He turned them down one by one. Two voices grappled in his head, neither willing to yield. The quill hovered over the paper and dried.

The door opened.

Anna stepped in wearing an oversized pajama, a damp fringe clinging to her forehead, a faint placid smile at the corners of her eyes. She looked at him and waited.

Roland set the quill down. His chest was tight.

He pulled her to the desk and told her — slowly, without embellishment — the thing that had been sitting between them. Everything he’d been carrying. What he felt for Nightingale. What he felt for her. The fear that both of those things could be true and what that meant.

Silence followed.

It stretched long enough that he began to prepare for her to stand and leave the room without a word. He slowly looked up.

Her expression had barely changed.

“That’s it?” she said.

He didn’t know how to answer. “What?”

“I’ve been wondering when you’d say it.” She settled herself in the chair beside him, her posture unhurried. “I didn’t want you to rush — but I also wanted you to say it as soon as you could, so I could stop waiting. Now I don’t have to.” A pause. “I can tell you care about Nightingale. The more you hesitated, the clearer it was that you also cared about me. But I wanted you to speak. I would rather share your burden than watch you carry it alone.”

Roland stared at her.

“I never imagined,” she said, “that I would earn the affection of royalty. I thought it would be enough simply to be near you. When you told me you’d marry me someday, I revised that expectation.” Her voice was quiet and precise — not sharp, not wounded, simply exact. “Roland. I won’t share you with anyone.”

“I’m sorry. I —”

“Don’t apologize. Love isn’t a matter of right or wrong.” She was still for a moment, then looked at him with an expression he couldn’t read. “You’re not a man from this world, are you?”

His heart stopped.

“No one here — noble or common — would feel this kind of hesitation about this kind of question, unless they were raised in an entirely different world.” She went on steadily. “And people in this world treat witches fairly sometimes, but they don’t befriend them. Do you remember the bet we made? I wrote in the book that you were a guest from another world. Not from hell or the abyss — from somewhere more humane. A world that sent you to me, carrying knowledge we’d never heard of.” She paused. “I believed that even then.”

Roland held her gaze. “You’re… mostly right. With some details off.”

Anna smiled — warm and a little proud. “I also wrote that you’d tell me about Nightingale. Two things I got right, at least.”

He was still forming a response when she took his hand. Her fingers were steady and warm.

“I can’t give my consent to your request,” she said. “Not now.”

He blinked.

Not now. Not never. Not now.

“I know what’s weighing on you.” She squeezed his hand once. “Don’t worry. I’ll speak to her. It’s time to sleep.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. A brief, exact touch. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

The door closed with a soft click.

Roland sat alone in the quiet room and took a long time to think about what had just happened. The relief was there — the unburdening of a thing carried too long. But underneath it was something that caught him off guard: the specific, unsettling awareness that Anna was not only talented in design and fabrication.

She also had a kind of perception that he had thoroughly underestimated.

Discussion

Suggest a change