The entrance hall stops me mid-step. Marble floors that are actually marble, not concrete pretending. A chandelier that's only missing a few crystals instead of being entirely theoretical. A staircase that curves up to the second floor, and it smells like lemon oil and old wood, not mold and that weird tang that seeped into everything at the warehouse. Who polished these floors? Recently? The oil smell is fresh.
"There's no water damage," Davis whispers, touching a wall that's just... a wall. Doing its job. Being vertical and solid. "It's dry."
Guild members stream in behind us, all trying to look dangerous while obviously being overwhelmed by basic architectural stability. Grimm actually touches the banister like he needs to make sure it's real, which is sweet in a deeply concerning way.
"Rooms!" I remember suddenly, pulling out my crumpled assignment list that I definitely didn't stay up making. "Everyone needs rooms! With doors! Real doors that close!"
"Upper floors first," Ruvan says, but I'm already moving because kitchens exist and I need to see them immediately.
"Kitchen first! We need to see the kitchens!" I dart left, following my nose toward what has to be food preparation areas because I can smell... is that rosemary? Someone left herbs hanging to dry. "Oh, oh look!"
The first kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment was. Copper pots hanging from hooks—tarnished but whole, not held together by hope and wire. An actual stove with multiple burners that probably all work. Counter space that goes on forever, and I'm already planning where the bread station will go, where we'll prep vegetables, where the soup pot will live. Do the chimneys work? Should check. Smoke in enclosed spaces is serious.
"We could make so much bread," Finn breathes behind me, and he sounds ready to cry.
"So much bread," I agree, already mentally organizing work stations. "And soup. And things that aren't burnt on one side and raw on the other."
"Boss wants security positions established," Gray Streak says, but he's also staring at the kitchen with something close to wonder.
"Security can wait five minutes." I open cupboards—actual cupboards with actual dishes inside. Dusty, but unbroken. How long have these been here? Is the dust toxic? Some old dust has lead in it. "Look, plates! Matching ones! We could eat off matching plates like civilized people!"
Through the kitchen, down a hallway so narrow my hips brush both walls—definitely servant quarters, built for smaller people who didn't stress-bake—and there it is. The second kitchen. Smaller, probably for servant use originally, but with its own oven and workspace and—
"Two kitchens," I say, and I'm definitely not crying. "We have two kitchens. We could cook different things at the same time. We could have designated bread space!"
"Olivia." Ruvan's voice cuts through my kitchen joy. "Rooms. Now."
Right. Rooms. People need somewhere to sleep that isn't communal floor space with aggressive fungi.
The second floor hallway goes on forever, doors evenly spaced like someone planned this instead of just hoping walls would stay upright. I start opening them, mentally assigning based on my list. This one for Grimm—corner room, extra privacy for his long baths he pretends he doesn't take. Finn gets the one near the stairs because he likes helping with breakfast. Ridge needs southern exposure for his still-recovering lungs.
"How do you know which rooms face south?" Gray Streak asks as I direct traffic.
"The sun. It's... in the south? That's how directions work?" I open another door. "Oh, Tooth should have this one. Look at that closet space! He could organize his knife collection properly instead of keeping them in that bag that definitely has holes."
Everyone's standing in doorways like they're afraid to enter. Like it might be a trick. Like someone's going to tell them they misunderstood and actually they're sleeping in the cellar.
"These are yours," I tell them, trying to sound confident and not like I'm about to cry over door hinges that actually work. "Your actual rooms. With doors that lock and windows that open and no mushrooms plotting revolution."
"We get our own rooms?" Davis looks ready to cry too.
"Everyone gets their own room. That's the entire point of having twenty bedrooms." I'm checking windows now, making sure they seal properly. This one sticks a bit, needs oil. Mental note. Where do we even buy oil? Is there a specific window oil? "Privacy. Dignity. The ability to change clothes without an audience."
Syl signs something that Gray Streak translates as "But who watches for threats?"
"The doors lock. That's literally what doors are for." I move to the next room, finding dust sheets over what might be furniture. Are these sheets salvageable? We need linens. So many linens. "Oh look, some of the old furniture's still here! This could be a perfectly good wardrobe with some cleaning and maybe new handles because these ones are tarnished but that's fixable."
The morning blurs past—or maybe it's afternoon now? The bathrooms are miracles—clawfoot tubs that don't leak, running water that's actually clear, tiles that aren't actively cultivating new diseases. Grimm actually makes a sound when he sees his assigned bathroom, something between a sob and a prayer.
"Hot water," he whispers, turning the tap. It sputters, coughs, then runs clear and steaming. "Unlimited hot water."
"Well, probably limited by the boiler capacity, but yes, so much more than the kettle situation we had!" I'm already planning bath schedules, but generous ones. Luxurious ones. The kind where people can actually get clean instead of just moving dirt around. "You could soak, Grimm. Actually soak until your fingers get pruny!"
I should check on Ruvan. It's been hours maybe, and he's probably in his tower doing something broody and shadow-related. Need to make sure he's not just standing at windows forgetting to blink.
The tower stairs are narrow and spiral and my hips knock against the walls twice before I remember to turn sideways. Definitely built for aristocrats who didn't eat regular meals. The door at the top is open and afternoon light spills out all golden and dusty.
I find him standing at the window overlooking grounds we apparently own now. He looks lost. Not physically—he always knows exactly where he is. But something in his shoulders, the way he's gripping the windowsill, says he doesn't know how to exist in this much space without someone trying to kill him in it.
