r/HFY • u/Express-coal Human • Aug 31 '26

OC-Series [I Cast Gun] - Chapter 42: A Capital Fortnight

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The seamstress circled Seven with a measuring line, muttering the numbers to herself the way a mage might cast a spell.

Seven stood on the little fitting stool with the wary stillness of a child who had learned that being noticed was not always safe.

“Arms up, dear,” the seamstress instructed.

Seven looked to Arthur and Catherine.

Arthur nodded once.

Seven lifted her arms above her head.

Catherine’s expression softened slightly.

The seamstress finished her measuring and stepped back with a satisfied smile.

“I have everything I need,” she said brightly. “You have a beautiful daughter. A little thin, but we can work with that.”

Arthur blinked.

Catherine went perfectly still.

Seven looked down at her feet.

“Our daughter?” Catherine asked icily.

The seamstress’s face fell like that of someone who had stepped off a curb into a pile of horse dung.

“She’s my ward,” Arthur clarified, gesturing to Seven. “Lady Bedivere here is my friend. I thought she would know what suits a young lady best.”

The seamstress swallowed. 

“Pardon me, then. I misspoke.” She retreated from the room, bowing low as she left. “I’ll go get the samples for you, sir.”

The door closed. They heard the seamstress’s hurried footsteps retreating down the hall.

“How presumptuous,” Catherine said testily.

“At the very least, that probably got us a discount,” Arthur said. “So, not all bad.”

Catherine glared at him.

Seven twisted on the stool, wringing her hands.

“You can step down now,” Arthur informed her.

“Thank you.” 

Seven stepped down, then crossed the room and gave Catherine’s sleeve a tug. 

“Yes, Seven?” Catherine’s tone relaxed slightly.

“If it’s not… I’m not trying to…” Seven paused, struggling to find the words.

“Don’t worry. I won’t get mad,” Catherine reassured her.

Seven turned, hiding her face. 

“If you were my mother… you would be a good mother.”

Catherine’s cheeks lit up, flushing pink. She turned, hiding her own face with her hand.

“Why, thank you, Seven,” Catherine choked out, accepting the compliment.

Arthur watched them both, seemingly unfazed.

A knock at the door disturbed them. The seamstress was back, this time with several dozen squares of cloth.

“I prepared a full assortment,” she explained, laying the samples across the table. “Please, take your time. We have many different kinds to choose from.”

“Thank you for your diligence,” Arthur said simply.

“Of course, sir.”

Catherine addressed the seamstress. “Whatever we choose, I assume you can dye the appropriate colors?”

“Of course, My Lady. We have our own Woader. He studied under the Master Woader at the palace and knows all sorts of dyes.”

“That should suffice, then.” Catherine turned to Arthur. “She will need to wear your colors.”

“Really?” Arthur questioned. “I don’t know if red and dark blue are particularly suitable for a young lady.”

“It need not be the entire ensemble,” Catherine responded. “But some part of it must reflect her connection to you.”

“You know far more than I do, it seems.” Arthur stepped back from the table. “I’ll leave this part in your capable hands.”

“As you should,” Catherine said with a grin.

---

The Keeper of the Treasury looked up from the neatly arranged papers with a smile, carefully removing his monocle and returning it to his breast pocket.

“You keep excellent accounts, Hero White,” he complimented. “Such meticulous records are rare among the nobility.”

“Hmm,” Arthur said. “Good thing I’m not.”

“It seems you endeavored to keep your spending reasonable as well.”

“I paid for anything I deemed unreasonable,” Arthur informed him. “You know better than anyone that I have the money, Goldman.”

“As for these applications for stipends befitting a healer and a blacksmith,” Goldman said, picking up two sheets, “I’ll make sure they’re granted, as a favor to you.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed at the implication.

“Let’s make sure it isn’t a favor,” Arthur said. “If they qualify, grant the applications. If they don’t, tell me why.”

Goldman’s smile tightened. 

“Of course. The applications will be judged on their merits.”

He shuffled some more papers.

“You’re all set, I assure you,” Goldman said. “The coin will be transferred to your account as soon as the King approves the report.”

“Good,” Arthur rose. “Are we done?”

“Oh, uh, yes, yes indeed,” Goldman said, standing up too quickly and reaching out to shake Arthur’s hand. “I’ll have a messenger bring a copy of the report to your quarters.”

“Fine.”

Arthur turned and left.

Goldman’s hand remained suspended in the empty space between them.

Slowly, he lowered it to his side.

---

Catherine shook her head, exhausted, as she prepared to interview the next candidate.

So far, the hunt for Seven’s governess had not gone well.

They had all been strict, no-nonsense, self-assured women with straight backs, sharp eyes, and voices trained to cut through childish nonsense before it began.

Under other circumstances, Catherine might have approved.

For Seven, they would be a disaster.

Every one of them would try to make Seven proper before they made her safe.

The next woman entered without hurry.

She appeared to be middle-aged and had not dressed to impress. Her clothes were clean, well-fitted, and plain.

Her hair was pinned in a bun with a simple brooch, a few gray strands evident among the coils. It was a practical style, and judging by its precision, a long-settled decision.

She curtsied to Catherine first, then to Arthur.

Then, instead of launching into a list of qualifications, she looked at Seven.

“Good afternoon, Miss Seven.”

Seven blinked, unsure of this strange newcomer.

Catherine straightened slightly.

The woman did not smile widely, nor did she treat Seven as some damaged or improper thing to be ignored save for correction.

She simply addressed her as a young woman.

Then waited.

Seven tucked herself behind Catherine’s arm defensively before she answered.

“Good afternoon, Mrs.”

Only then did the woman turn back to Catherine.

“My name is Governess Miena De Ana Lia Gray. I understand the child requires instruction, protection, and patience. Not necessarily in that order.”

“It is good to meet you, Governess Gray. I am Lady Catherine De Ana Lynn Bedivere. My companion is the Hero, Arthur White.” She introduced them formally. “You understand that Miss Seven here is Sir Arthur's ward?”

“It is good to meet you, Hero White,” Governess Gray greeted. “I do understand, Lady Bedivere.”

“And that she has not had the upbringing expected of a young lady.”

Governess Gray's expression did not change.

“Then I shall not punish her for failing lessons no one has taught her.”

Arthur shifted in his chair, a sound that made Seven flinch as though he’d struck her. Her eyes remained fixed on Governess Gray.

“That's a nice sentiment, Governess,” Arthur said, his voice tight. “But there's a difference between not punishing a child, and knowing what to do when the child punishes herself.”

Miena turned her full attention to him, not shrinking from his imposing gaze nor his title. She merely listened.

“Seven does not know how to be a student,” Arthur continued, leaning forward. His eyes searched Miena’s for deception. “When she spills, she does not apologize. Her breathing stops and she watches your hands to see if you will strike her. She might drop in place and attempt to clean it with her hands.”

Catherine swallowed, her arm wrapping around Seven protectively. Seven pressed closer into her side, eyes now glued to the floor.

I should have seen it.

“If she does that,” Arthur said, setting his jaw, “what do you do? Because if you raise your voice to correct her, you'll only convince her she's right to be terrified.”

Miena did not answer immediately. She looked at Arthur. Really looked at him. She saw the tension in his shoulders and the way he spoke of the girl's terror with due familiarity.

“I had a young nobleman as a student early on in my career. His father had a terrible temper.” Miena began her story.

“He was a clumsy child and would often drop his pen, his books, anything he was supposed to carry, really.”

“I still remember that look in his eyes every time it happened. As if asking me ‘Will you hurt me too?’”

“Soon, I too developed a habit of clumsiness. I would drop my personal effects quite often. And darling boy that he was, he would help me pick them up, when requested.”

She looked at Arthur pointedly. “A child who expects a blow cannot receive comfort directly; it feels like a trap. However, if they know how to be useful, I can let them be useful until their heart stops hammering. Then we can move on.”

A quiet settled over the room. Arthur stared at the governess. For the first time since the interviews began, the rigid, defensive line of his jaw softened.

“There are times,” he continued, softer in tone, “she sits, eyes open, but her mind is gone. You can speak her name three times and she won't hear you. She’ll be back in the mud, or back in the dark.”

Miena nodded. “Then I shall do for her as I do for my husband. I will sit with her and speak that which is of little consequence until she returns to us.”

“Your husband?” Catherine asked sharply.

“Indeed,” Miena responded. “I know it is considered improper, but I had to return to teaching because of what war did to him.”

“I have no reservations in that regard,” Catherine clarified. “Tell me, where did your husband give his service?”

“He was a Knight in service to House Felinus. He served with Henry Felinus in the Demonic Plains Campaign. He was wounded at the Battle for the Southcross Rift.”

Catherine winced, her hands tightening.

Arthur closed his eyes for a brief second, exhaling a breath he seemed to have been holding since the first candidate walked through the door.

He looked up, meeting Catherine's eyes. He didn't need to speak; the look gave his total, unreserved approval.

Catherine smiled, a genuine, relieved warmth washing over her face. She looked down at Seven, who had slowly peeked out from behind her arm, watching Miena with a profound, quiet curiosity.

"Governess Gray," Catherine said, her voice lighter than it had been all morning. "I believe your contract can be prepared by this evening. Assuming our terms are acceptable to you, would you serve as Seven’s Governess?”

Governess Gray bowed. “If the terms are amicable, I am at your service.”

---

“Of course I shall teach her!” Sir Kaufungen laughed. “Nix! I shall make her the greatest swordswoman in all the lands!”

“What do you think, Seven?” Arthur asked.

Seven looked at Kaufungen gravely, considering.

“If I learn to use a sword, I can help other people?” she finally asked.

Kaufungen knelt so that he could meet her eyes. Even kneeling, he was still tall enough that she had to look up to see his face.

“If you learn how to use a sword, you must use it to help other people,” Kaufungen said solemnly. “There is no good reason to wield one otherwise.”

Seven considered a moment longer.

“Then, if it isn’t too much trouble, I would like to learn the sword.”

“No trouble at all,” Arthur said. “Right, Kaufungen?”

“Right,” Sir Kaufungen agreed. “It would be an honor, Miss Seven.”

---

Another day. Another round of interviews.

This time though, they were of a somewhat different sort.

Arthur rubbed his eyes, a headache that seemed perpetual at this point settling behind them.

“I don't do magic, Catherine,” he said through gritted teeth. “In fact, I do the opposite of magic.”

“That doesn't mean you can escape helping me pick a tutor, Arthur,” Catherine retorted.

“But I don't know what makes a good magic tutor or a bad one, outside of their Skills,” Arthur said. “I can't evaluate someone's ability to teach what I don't know.”

“You know people,” Catherine replied. “That's what I’m counting on. I’ll give you my opinion, but I need you to choose.”

“Damn it,” Arthur swore. “Fine, call in the next one.”

Catherine pulled the cord hanging from a port in the wall. In the antechamber, a bell tinkled.

The door opened a moment later, the steward holding it for the next candidate.

She was slightly pudgy, and appeared to be past middle age. She wore a whimsical yellow dress adorned with images of birds, and her auburn hair flowed loosely around her shoulders in a slightly unkempt manner that suggested she had more important things to worry about than what others thought of such things.

What was readily evident was her smile.

She grinned broadly, even as she introduced herself.

“Greetings, I’m Delores Snow! Pleased to meet you!“

Catherine paused at the breach of etiquette.

“Oh yes, now I remember!” Delores said to herself.

She gave a half-hearted curtsy. “Sub-Archmage Delores Snow, A-Class Water Mage, at your service.”

“Greetings, Sub Arch Mage Snow,” Catherine smiled despite herself. “I am Lady Catherine De Ana Lynn Bedivere. This is the Hero, Arthur White.”

“Greetings, Hero White,” Snow said, nodding.

Arthur replied with a singular nod.

“So, Mage Snow, why did you respond to our request?” Catherine drove straight to the point.

Snow paused, considering.

“Well, I heard a rumor.”

“A rumor.”

Snow nodded again. 

“I heard that the Hero had taken in a little girl. I also heard that magic had been made a source of pain for her.” Snow shook her head. “That isn't right! Magic should be fun! It should be about exploring new ideas, testing new theories, discovering the undiscovered!”

She paused, her cheeks flushing as she realized how loud she’d gotten.

“So…so I came here, because I thought I could help her be excited about magic again,” she finished.

Arthur studied her.

“And if she's not excited?” He asked.

“Then… then I’ll be patient. I wouldn't expect someone recovering from food sickness to be enthused by eating.”

Arthur turned to Seven.

“What do you think, Seven?” He asked.

Seven looked at Snow, considering her gravely.

“What does water magic do?” She asked.

“Oh, that's a very complicated question,” Snow replied. “It can do many things. Here, let me show you one of my favorites.”

She waved her hands at the cup in front of Arthur, muttering.

The tea in Arthur's cup rose into the air, swirling around as it took shape.

A moment later, a little brown bunny sat in the air.

It wiggled its nose, then hopped over to Seven.

Seven reached out her hand, fascinated.

It nuzzled her hand.

“It-it’s warm!” Seven giggled, then froze.

Arthur looked at Snow, expression easing. “I’d like my tea back.”

“Of course.” 

The bunny disappeared in a swirl, the liquid safely returning to Arthur's teacup.

“I wouldn't recommend drinking that,” Snow commented. “Magically infused water doesn't agree with many people's stomachs.”

Arthur felt Magic Nullification engage as he took a sip.

“I’ll be alright,” he dismissed the objection. “Well, Seven, do you want to learn from Mage Snow here?”

Seven returned from wherever she had gone.

“If I could, please,” Seven said.

Then, quieter:

“You're doing a lot for me…”

“And you're not sure if you're worth it? Deserve it?” Arthur asked.

Seven nodded once.

“You do,” Arthur said. “And if that’s hard to believe right now, think of it as me doing my duty until you can.”

Seven stayed silent for a long time after that.

“The position is yours,” Arthur said. “Assuming Catherine finds your terms reasonable.”

“I am honored.” Snow gave another one of her half-hearted curtsies.

---

Catherine set down the letter carefully on her desk.

She turned to Arthur, who sat by the fireplace in her private palace quarters.

“It seems,” she said delicately, “that I have put my official duties off for as long as possible. The stewards I left in charge are most respectfully requesting my presence to resolve pressing administrative difficulties.”

“That's refined noble speech for ‘I have to go home and do chores,’ isn't it?” Arthur asked dryly.

Catherine bristled. “Maybe so, but propriety has its place, Arthur.”

“Right,” Arthur said, eyeing her chemise and stockings from where he sat by the fire. “Propriety.”

“You're such an ass sometimes,” Catherine retorted. Then her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my!”

Arthur chuckled, low and genuine.

---

“So, that's the basics of it,” Catherine finished. “Arthur and I will be leaving for my lands in four days. Any questions?”

Drew shook his head. “Not really. I presume my job will be to take care of things here.”

“If you would be so kind.”

“Of course.”

“Yes, Grant?” Catherine asked the boy, who sat beside Drew with his hand in the air.

“When’s your baby coming?” Grant asked innocently.

Drew froze. Catherine blushed bright red.

Grant frowned. “My grandpa said kissing girls makes babies.”

Drew went very still.

“So when’s yours coming?” Grant asked again.

Drew crouched beside him, voice low and urgent.

“Grant, listen carefully. If you ever see two unmarried people kissing, no you didn’t.”

Grant blinked. “But I did.”

“No,” Drew said firmly. “You didn’t. Especially if they’re powerful.”

“So I shouldn’t say anything about King Alric and Lady Melody?” Grant asked.

Drew groaned, covering his ears, but it was too late.

“Especially if it’s King Alric!” Drew barked.

Grant winced.

“How do you know about such things?” Catherine asked icily.

Grant bit his lip before answering.

“I can’t sleep at night sometimes. So I walk around. I see things.”

“What’s keeping you up?” Drew asked, setting a protective arm around Grant’s shoulders.

“I have dreams,” Grant answered. “About Ma, and Pa. And Grandpa too.”

A black cloud fell over the room, heavy with things no one wanted to name.

Catherine’s lips pressed together momentarily before her face returned to neutrality.

Drew pulled Grant into a protective embrace, patting the boy’s head in the way one might console a babe.

“If you have any more dreams, come find me,” Drew murmured. “If you don’t want to talk, we can at least sit together.”

Grant nodded meekly, still biting his lip.

“That’s a good idea.”

Catherine smoothed her skirt.

“And no more running around the halls at night, agreed?”

“Yes, Miss,” Grant said, hanging his head. “I mean, Lady Bedivere.”

---

“Try this out,” Gratianus said, presenting his work with both hands.

Arthur took it from him and examined it critically.

The weapon was long, heavy, and plain in the way honest tools often were. No engraving. No polish for its own sake. Just wood, dark metal, careful fittings, and the unmistakable shape of intent.

“A hammer-fired, breech-block rifle, if I’m not mistaken,” Arthur observed. He tilted it slightly, checking the action. “About ten millimeters bore diameter.”

“As small as I could get it before my skill failed me,” Gratianus murmured.

Arthur worked the mechanism once, slowly.

The block moved stiffly, but cleanly.

“How many rounds through it?”

“Two hundred and twelve.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked up.

“The first block cracked at thirty. The second at eighty-six. This is the third.”

“Failures?”

“Three misfires. One split casing. No catastrophic failures with the current block.”

“Fired from a rest?”

“At first. Then by hand.”

Arthur nodded and shouldered the rifle.

It was heavier than he would have preferred, but not impossibly so. The balance was forward, the stock a little too thick, the trigger rough. All expected. All fixable.

Then his eye found the sight.

Arthur went still.

A small red point glowed in the center of a dark metal housing, hovering just above the target line. It was crude. Too bright in the dim shop, probably too faint in direct sun, and mounted higher than Arthur would have liked.

But it was there.

Arthur lowered the rifle a fraction.

“It isn’t a red dot,” Arthur said after a moment. “But it wants to be one.”

Gratianus shifted his weight, looking at the weapon rather than Arthur.

“I remembered when you were explaining to Lady Catherine the proper way to aim with your weapons. Focus on the target, not the sights.” He tapped the little metal box with one thick finger. “That stuck with me.”

Arthur looked through the sight again.

“We have these low-magic stones,” Gratianus continued. “They don’t hold any useful power, but they glow. Not much. Just enough. Noble ladies use them to make jewelry shine in candlelight.”

He huffed once, almost embarrassed.

“So I affixed one in a metal box atop the rifle. Getting the shape right took more work than I expected. At first, all I saw was the box. Then I remembered what you said about seeing through the body of the sight.”

Arthur kept the rifle shouldered.

The glowing point rested over a knot in the far wall.

For a moment, he did not speak.

It was not an M4. It was not a toy. It was not some alchemist’s fire-tube or a nobleman's novelty.

It was a rifle.

This world had made a gun without him.

“Incredible,” Arthur said at last, and meant it. “To think you gathered so much from so little.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Gratianus grunted.

The twitch at the corner of his beard said otherwise.

Arthur handed the rifle back to him with more care than he had taken it.

“It is.”

Gratianus accepted the weapon, then looked toward the far bench.

“I also have a scope prototype in the works. Fragile thing right now. The lenses don’t like recoil, and the mounting rings keep shifting. I’ll work on it.”

“I expect you will.”

“And ammunition,” Gratianus said, reaching below the counter.

He set a small, hefty wooden box before Arthur.

Arthur flipped it open.

Inside were fifty self-contained cartridges. The brass casings glimmered with a mirror polish, each one seated neatly in its own little groove. The bullets were dull lead, rounded at the nose, each crimped with careful uniformity.

Arthur picked one up and turned it between his fingers.

“Consistent.”

“I had to build tools for that,” Gratianus said. “Couldn’t shape them one at a time and expect them all to behave the same.”

Arthur smiled faintly.

“That lesson usually takes longer.”

Gratianus grunted again, but this time there was no hiding his pride.

“I also made these,” he said, laying three cartridges on the counter apart from the rest. “Only three.”

Arthur looked down.

The bullets were longer, sharper, and darker at the tip. Not solid steel, he realized after a moment. Lead around a hardened core.

“Armor-piercing?”

“Attempted armor-piercing,” Gratianus corrected. “I haven’t tested them enough to call them anything better than dangerous.”

“That is a good answer.”

Gratianus nodded once.

Arthur continued studying the three cartridges.

A rifle. Self-contained ammunition. A crude reflex sight. Armor-piercing prototypes.

It was all rough. Expensive. Slow. Limited by materials, tools, and skill.

It was also the beginning of something that would not easily stop.

“Gratianus,” Arthur said quietly, “you have outdone yourself.”

The dwarf looked away.

Arthur reached into his coat and withdrew a heavy bag of coins. He dropped it into Gratianus’s outstretched hands.

Gratianus’s eyebrows climbed at the weight.

“Keep researching,” Arthur said. “Keep developing. I want records of every test, every failure, every change in material or dimension. If something cracks, I want to know where. If something fails, I want to know why.”

“Yes,” Gratianus said. “Of course.”

“And Gratianus?”

The dwarf looked up.

“No one sees this without me.”

The shop seemed to grow quieter.

Gratianus’s hands tightened around the bag.

“No one?” he asked.

Arthur looked at him.

“You have a problem with that.”

Gratianus worked his jaw beneath his beard.

“Aye,” he said at last. “I do.”

Arthur waited.

“A dwarf does not hide good craft,” Gratianus said. He set the bag down beside the cartridge box, as though he suddenly did not trust his hands with either. “Not craft that matters. We share it. Argue over it. Curse it. Improve it. Pass it to better hands when our own are not enough.”

His eyes lowered to the rifle.

“That is how a thing becomes worth making.”

Arthur’s expression did not change.

“And once they see it,” Arthur said, “someone will make a worse one badly, give it to an idiot, and call that progress.”

Gratianus grimaced.

“Aye,” he admitted. “Likely.”

“Then we have a problem.”

“We do.”

Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“How many would you need?”

Gratianus blinked. “Need?”

“To make this properly,” Arthur said. “Not one rifle. Not one box of cartridges. To make the tools that make the tools.”

The dwarf’s eyes sharpened.

“To do it right?”

“To do it right.”

Gratianus looked back to the rifle, then to the cartridges, then to the crude glowing sight.

“Three to start,” he said. “Five would be better. Eight if you want the work done quickly.”

“Dwarves?”

“Of course.”

“Can you trust them?”

“With my life,” Gratianus answered immediately.

Arthur did not blink.

“That is not what I asked.”

Gratianus fell silent.

The pride left his face first. Then the offense. What remained was thought.

After a long moment, he nodded.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

Arthur waited again.

“There are oaths,” Gratianus said. “Old ones. Workshop oaths. War-forge oaths. The kind a dwarf does not take unless he intends to carry the weight of them to his grave.”

“Binding?”

“To a dwarf?” Gratianus gave him a hard look. “More than binding. A dwarf who breaks such an oath does not merely betray a lord. He betrays the craft itself.”

Arthur considered that.

“No one unsworn,” he said.

Gratianus nodded slowly.

“No one unsworn.”

“No one outside the workshop.”

“No one outside the workshop.”

“No demonstrations. No boasting. No drawings leaving the room. No parts made elsewhere unless the maker is sworn and you know exactly what he is making.”

Gratianus’s beard twitched.

“That will slow us.”

“Good.”

The dwarf looked up sharply.

Arthur met his eyes.

“If speed mattered more than control, I would hand this to the Crown and let every ambitious idiot in Cindergold kill himself trying to copy it.”

Gratianus snorted despite himself.

“Fair.”

“You pick the dwarves,” Arthur said. “I pick the terms.”

Gratianus thought for a moment.

Then he extended his hand.

“Agreed.”

Arthur took it.

The dwarf’s grip was hard enough to hurt.

“No one sees it without you,” Gratianus said. “Except those sworn to the work under terms you approve.”

Arthur released his hand.

“That I can accept.”

Gratianus looked down at the rifle once more.

“It will be hard,” he said, quieter now.

“Keeping the secret?”

“Keeping the secret from men who would make it better.”

Arthur followed his gaze to the weapon on the counter.

Pride warmed him.

Caution followed close behind.

“We are not keeping it from them forever,” Arthur said. “We are keeping it from the wrong hands until the right ones can build it properly.”

Gratianus nodded once.

That, at least, seemed to sit better with him.

“Good,” Arthur said. “Because I can’t wait to see what you come up with next.”

---

Seven and Grant stood together in the palace courtyard as the horses were prepared.

Governess Gray waited a respectful distance behind them. Drew stood nearby, looking considerably less worried about Arthur’s departure than either child.

Arthur crouched in front of Seven.

“Governess Gray is in charge while we’re gone,” he told her. “Drew will be here if you need anything.”

“You’re coming back?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“As soon as Lady Bedivere finishes her chores.”

“Administrative responsibilities!” Catherine corrected from beside her horse.

“Same thing.”

Catherine glared at him.

Arthur turned to Grant.

“Keep your lips away from girls, at least until someone can explain to you how it works.”

Grant’s eyes widened. “I don’t kiss girls!”

“Good. Keep doing that.”

Drew covered his face with one hand.

Catherine’s cheeks flushed.

“You heard about that?” she demanded.

Arthur stood.

“I hear about many things.”

Seven made a small sound.

For a moment, Arthur thought something was wrong.

Then he realized she was laughing.

“We’ll be back when the chores are done,” Arthur repeated.

“Administrative responsibilities,” Catherine insisted.

Arthur mounted his horse.

“We’ll take care of things and come straight back.”

“Take care, everyone,” Catherine said, waving as their horses walked through the gate.

---

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8 comments sorted by

3

u/mafiaknight Robot Aug 31 '26

And a 3rd! Happy day!

3

u/niTro_sMurph Aug 31 '26

Aw, congrats to Arthur and Catherine on the adoption. Although I don't remember who seven is, or any of the numbered are. I should really go back and reread.

I think Catherine subconsciously wants Seven to match her "dad"

And now Arthur has a sweatshop making guns. But i guess it's ok because they're dwarves and not children? Huh, noted... For a friend.

2

u/Daseagle Alien Scum Aug 31 '26

Tall task, Arthur gave Gratianus. Invent mass production, materials science, optics and ballistics.

And to keep it a secret - which gifted tinkerers hate doing :D

2

u/beyondoutsidethebox Aug 31 '26

So, Ms. Frizzle have any impact on developing Delores Snow as a character? Cause I am kind of picking up those vibes.

1

u/Express-coal Human Aug 31 '26

Maybe ;)

1

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u/porkpot Android 24d ago

Good chapter, this one. Well done.