Erin’s brain, unhelpful traitor that it was, immediately supplied the image of Alex in something slinky, champagne in one hand, midnight countdown echoing through the castle while Erin tried to get comfortable on a damp patch.
She shoved the thought away.
“Right,” she said. “Okay. So. Plan B. Spare rooms?”
“Full to the gunnels,” Maureen said. “We’ve shifted some of the older staff out of the coldest wing and into the guest rooms while we get the heating stabilised. And Ms. Grey- Hughes-Wilding has… claimed one for the emergency Christmas staging area.”
Of course she had.
“There is a wee attic room two floors up,” Maureen continued. “It’s got a bed, at least, and dry linens. But it’s no’ exactly… royal.”
Erin imagined Alex’s face if she suggested they decamp to the attic like characters in a Dickens novel. To be fair, Alex would probably find it romantic. Erin’s knees, on the other hand, would lodge a formal complaint.
“How small is ‘wee’?” she asked.
Maureen held up her hands, outlining a space roughly the size of a generous cupboard. “Cozy,” she said diplomatically. “For two.”
“And four children?” Erin asked.
Maureen’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re not planning on putting all four bairns in with you as well, are you?”
“Not if I can possibly help it,” Erin said fervently. “No offence, small people.”
“None taken,” Florence said. “You snore.”
“I do not snore,” Erin said automatically.
“You do a little,” Hyz said. “When you fall asleep reading.”
Traitors. All of them.
Maureen gave her a sympathetic look. “We’ll do what we can, Sergeant,” she said. “I’ll see if we can rustle up a temporary mattress for the floor. Might be we can borrow something from the staff wing. It won’t be fancy, but it’ll be dry.”
“Dry is my new favourite luxury,” Erin said. “Thank you. I appreciate it. And again, I’m sorry for the… indoor weather system.”
Maureen’s lips twitched again. “Och, this is nothing,” she said. “Last week, one of the under-chefs tried to deep-fry a Christmas pudding while drunk. Nearly took his eyebrows off. We’ve had worse in this castle than a few soggy towels.”
With that, she retreated, already pulling out her phone to no doubt rally a small army of laundry soldiers.
The door closed behind her. Silence, for a moment, fell in the soggy, overheated room.
Erin let out a breath.
“Okay,” she said. “Status update. Our bed is dead. The laundry is flooded. The heating is patchy. The children are damp. We are relocating.”
“Relocating where?” Matilda asked.
“Somewhere that doesn’t squelch,” Erin said. “New objective: dry socks, dry pyjamas, dry… everything.”
“What about you and Mummy Alex?” Florence asked. “Where will you sleep?”
“In a cozy attic love nest,” Vic’s voice chimed from the doorway.
Erin turned. Vic leaned against the frame, hair frizzing slightly from the humidity, clipboard nowhere to be seen for once.
“You heard,” Erin said.
“It’s a stone castle, love, not a soundproof bunker,” Vic said. “Also, Maureen texted me a photo.” She flicked her phone screen toward Erin, revealing a picture of the devastated mattress. “RIP Bed. You served the monarchy well.”
