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Noon had been kind to Eastborne as sunlight laid itself warmly across the old stones, catching upon the towers and broken places alike until even the worn edges seemed touched by gold. The air carried the cool breath of the sea from the north, soft enough to stir through the grass and lift the loose strands of Vidalia’s pale coat where she stood near the crossing. There had been much to do still, of course. There was always much to do. Eastborne was not a place that mended itself in a day, nor a week, nor perhaps even a season. It required patient paws, careful eyes, and a heart stubborn enough to love what had been left behind.

Vidalia had found, despite everything, that she was well suited to loving broken things.

She had been near the entrance that day, tending to the small signs of life she had encouraged to take root there. Freshly turned soil rested near the base of the old gate, where hardy flowers had been planted in hope that they might one day soften the severity of stone. It was a small thing, perhaps. A foolish thing, even. But she had learned long ago that beauty did not need permission to survive. Sometimes it only needed someone willing to kneel in the dirt and believe in it to help it along.

Raelan was somewhere nearby, near enough that the knowledge of him rested quietly at the back of her mind, though not near enough for her to see him. His presence was a comfort all the same, steady as a hand she did not need to reach for to know it was there.

A song reached her before the traveler did.

Her ears lifted first, then her head, pale gaze drifting toward the open crossing where the tune came bright upon the warm air. It was cheerful, almost startlingly so against the quiet dignity of the place. Vidalia stilled with one paw lightly dusted in soil, listening as the melody wove itself through the afternoon like a ribbon caught upon the wind. For a moment, she only listened. Then a soft, faintly amused smile found its way to her mouth.

Well, she thought, that was certainly a lovelier arrival than most.

She stepped away from the little garden then, shaking loose some of the earth from her paw with as much grace as one could manage after having been half-buried in work. The sight of a stranger no longer set her heart into such immediate alarm as it once might have, though old instincts still lingered within her being. Her gaze was observant and careful, but not unkind.

Good day to you, she called, her voice carrying lightly across the crossing. You come to Eastborne with a song upon your tongue. I would hope that means your business is friendly.

The smile remained, softened by courtesy and curiosity alike. She held herself with practiced grace, though there was something warmer beneath it now.

You will have to forgive the state of things, Vidalia added after a moment, glancing briefly toward the towers with something fond and aching tucked behind her expression. We are still teaching the old girl how to look alive again.

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Fair maiden.

There had been a time when such words might have made Vidalia lower her gaze and smile prettily because it was expected of her. There had been a time when she had been dressed in silks and furs, paraded beneath chandeliers and before courtly eyes, praised for her beauty as though it were the most interesting thing about her. As though a woman could be made more palatable when reduced to softness, to a pleasant thing worth looking upon and admiring.

Now, standing with soil upon her paw and sunlight warming the old stones behind her, Vidalia found the title almost amusing.

Not unkindly so.

Her smile lingered, faint and composed, though one ear tipped back with something like mild embarrassment at the stranger’s open regard. He was bold in a way she was not accustomed to, his words crossing the distance between them as easily as the sea-breeze moved through the grass. Yet there was no malice that she could see. No immediate threat. Only a traveler with a bard’s heart, perhaps, and a mouth that seemed willing to make poetry of whatever stood before him.

A good day to you, she reiterated once he had drawn near enough that neither of them needed to raise their voices so greatly. And I suppose Queen would be the more accurate greeting, though I have been called far worse things than fair maiden.

There was a small warmth there, tucked beneath the dignity of her voice. Dry, perhaps and softly humored. She shook the last of the loose earth from her paw and stood a little straighter, not with any kind of arrogance, but with the old habit of a woman who had once learned how to survive beneath the scrutiny of courts and kings.

I am Vidalia of Eastrenhold, she continued, pale gaze resting upon him with careful interest. This is Eastborne, though you are correct. She has been quiet for a long while.

Her eyes drifted beyond him for a moment, toward the road, the darkened edges of forest, the world that had only recently learned how to thrive beneath sunlight again. The memory of that endless dark still seemed to live in the hollows of the land. It clung to old corridors, to broken walls, and to the places where even birdsong had once sounded too fragile to trust.

But quiet is not always the same as dead, Vidalia said, looking back to him. Some things only wait for the right hands to wake them.

Her expression softened as he spoke of his group, of the old tavern taken in and made into something livable. There was something familiar in that, something that touched a quiet place in her chest. A ruin, a home, a shelter given meaning not because it was grand, but because someone had chosen it and called it theirs.

A tavern along the western coast, she repeated gently, as if committing the detail to memory. Then we are neighbors, of a sort.

It was a curious thought. Eastborne had felt, for so long, like a lonely sentinel above the sea. To know there were others near enough to hear songs carried by the wind made the place feel a little less like a ghost story and more like the beginning of an epic.

I have found that old places are rarely as empty as they first appear, she said. They keep memories in their beams and stones. Some kinder than others, I imagine. But if you and yours have found peace there, then I am glad for it.

A small smile returned then, gentler than before.

And if your old tavern has survived anything like this castle has, then I suspect it is stubborn enough to deserve being loved.

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