Vic slowed as she rolled through a bondgate marking the town that had sprung up under the historic protection of the Duke of Northland. Cobblestone streets rumbled under her tires, and the long, grey rowhouses threatened to obscure her destination, but Penchant Castle refused to be concealed. Down every side street and over every roof, its impenetrable walls and octagonal tower demanded their due. When she made the last slow turn onto a wide old military boulevard, she had her final unobstructed view of the grey stone, bathed in orange glow and showered in her own sentiment.

She was home.

Pushing a little button on her dashboard, she waited for the heavy iron gate to rise before her. Thankfully, it was too late in the day for tourists or summer staff to mill about the grounds or gawk at her with their discreet whispers and not nearly as discreet cameras. Still, she made a point to smile and nod her acknowledgment to the lone security officer stationed at the gate house. He returned the gesture with a slight bow of his head, and with that minor formality observed, she blew out the last of the tension she’d been holding.

Then, turning toward the inner bailey, she sucked the stale air right back into her lungs.

“What the . . .” Hitting the brake hard enough to vent her surprise, she also managed to stall the engine. A large white lorry blocked the entire archway into the tightly enclosed courtyard, accompanied by the muffled voices of people doing God-only-knew-what inside.

Staring at the offending vehicle for several minutes, her sense of dread grew as each unreasonable possibility whirred through her mind. Surely no one would pull into a gated and guarded castle to rob them blind, but it was also prime tourist season, so no one would’ve scheduled anything major in the way of renovations or restorations either. If there had been a significant disaster via flood or fire, surely someone would’ve called her or her father before contracting for repairs. Her serenity evaporated at the realisation that no easy explanation met well with any logical one.

Climbing out and slamming the door to the Rover, she squeezed between the cargo compartment of the lorry and the stone walls into the courtyard. The smaller space was abuzz with activity. Men in Pickford polos hurried back and forth like ants carrying food toward their mound, only instead of leaves and berries, these little foot soldiers carried rugs, lamps, and her family’s antique fainting couch.

“Pardon me,” she called out. “What are you doing with that?”

“Loading.” A man with a rough growth of dark facial hair stated the obvious.

“For what purpose?”

He shrugged and hoisted the low legs of the couch onto the bed of the enclosed compartment. “I don’t ask questions. I lift, I move, I get paid.”