I'm working on the blind spots—where the old wiring has left dead zones, or where the new tech doesn't quite overlap.
I sketch them with care, pencil so faint it's almost invisible, then trace over in ink when I'm sure.
Sometimes, I fantasize about burning the entire book, but the ritual of adding to it matters more than the risk of being discovered.
It's midmorning when Lena arrives.
She knocks with a coded rhythm, a tic I've learned to recognize—two quick, one slow, like a heartbeat remembering itself.
I stash the notebook, smooth the quilt, and open the door just as she lifts her hand to knock again.
She's dressed in the usual—dark jeans, fitted jacket, boots silent on the runner.
Her hair is up, face scrubbed clean of any pretense.
She surveys the room with a glance, then steps inside, positioning herself with her back to the wall, the habit of someone trained to expect trouble from the corridor, not from me.
"Morning," she says, soft, almost friendly.
I nod, resisting the urge to offer tea or some other dumb offering.
Lena doesn't drink anything she hasn't watched being poured.
Instead, I pull on my boots and a scarf, the thin gray one with moth holes at the edge, and nod again, ready.
She opens the door, and I follow.
The guard at thecorridor pretends to be absorbed in his paperback, but when I pass, he shifts his eyes just enough that I catch the movement in my peripheral.
Lena notices, too.
At the end of the hallway, she slows until we are out of earshot, then says, "You have a tail today."
I say, "Nothing new."
"Not usually this close."
"Maybe they're bored."
She almost smiles, then flexes her hand inside her pocket, as if prepping for a weapon she knows she won't need.
We descend the stairs in silence, Lena half a pace behind me, the old choreography of prisoner and warden.
At the main floor, I head for the door to the terrace, ignoring the sidelong glance from the housekeeper arranging flowers in the front hall.
It's always the same—staff, security, Ruairí's men—all united in the project of observation.
If I ever slipped, even once, the story would be everywhere by lunch.
Outside, the air is sharp with the promise of rain, but the garden is immaculate.
Someone has spent hours pruning the boxwood and raking the gravel paths.
I walk the perimeter at a measured pace, Lena hovering just far enough back to let me feel alone.
I take the long route, past the hedge maze, the tennis court, the little chapel that now serves as a tool shed.
I stop at the east wall, where the stone is warm and mossy, and stand for a while, eyes closed, counting the minutes before the next patrol swings around.
