as he doctored the brew, but the one he made after downing the mixture was worse. He had a mirror that confirmed it.
His reflection proved several things, actually. It was a long cheval-style affair, set on dowels so it could pivot up and down. It had been in the room between this one and the suite belonging to his duchess. He’d hauled it in here himself after three menservants had delivered three pails of heated water to this chamber. He’d wanted one for soaping, one for rinsing, and the third one just because he was annoyed.
He hadn’t been when the groomsman, Rory, had deserted him at the front door. Or, rather, the lad had taken the mounts away after Neal dismounted and left him to face an array of uneven stone steps that led to the front door. At the second floor. Apparently, Straith Castle had been started as a tower house prior to being added and enhanced.
Neal had recalled that lesson as he’d considered the mass of dark stone.
There were reasons why living areas began with the second floor. The first floor was dark and cool, both necessities for food storage. There was a problem with pests, rats in particular. They also liked cool, dark places. There was always a risk of drunken clansmen riding into the place while still on horseback – a feat more than one nobleman had attempted in the past. This design was also a defense mechanism against a horde of invaders, assuming they survived a pelting of arrows and boiling oil during their approach. Having to mount a massive set of steps to accomplish a takeover would be an additional hurdle.
All of which went through Neal’s head before he’d shrugged it off. What did it matter how the castle had been constructed? By whom? And when? He needed to start discounting things. Financial world domination was the objective. Everything else was ancillary.
Everything.
Neal had started up the steps at a jog, taking them two-at-a-time, barely winded as he reached the top. The extra room in his trouser seats for such an exercise was a decided plus point. Perhaps he’d best rethink altering menswear too much. His new body was another bonus to his new reality, too. He was the same height – six feet, four inches – but he was several pounds heavier. The additional weight wasn’t flab. Neal had been in great shape in his thirties, but he didn’t recall possessing this much muscle. Strength. Or energy.
He reached the stoop. The castle had a large, iron-studded, wooden door. It was propped open, held that way with an iron statue in the shape of a reclining dog. Neal bounded onto a raised entrance stone. Dropped down onto a wooden floor with a thud that echoed. And then he’d entered a span of room large enough to hold a stockholder meeting. With all of his companies. At once.
And then he’d just stood there, absorbing the space, while working to keep his jaw from dropping.
The room was dim and carried a distinct chill, even for a sunny morning in June. Nobody was about. An arrangement of long, heavy-looking, wooden picnic tables and benches graced one side of the room. Hotel-sized rugs were scattered about the floor, looking like pools of color amidst all the dark wood. They each held a smattering of furniture. Couches. Chairs. Tables. Lamps. The amount of space was mind-numbing. He couldn’t imagine what energy it must take to keep this area at a comfortable temperature, or if that was even possible.
The ceiling was a good span above him. He couldn’t tell the construction material, but the support beams spanning the width were wood. Each one looked like it had been hewn from a single immense tree. There were windows in the highest level, sending sunlight down in multi-hued spears of illumination. The light touched on what they had displayed up there. Neal had lost the battle against his jaw. It had dropped. He’d spent years amassing a weapons collection. It was rarely seen outside of his vault. But he’d never seen the amount of weaponry he was looking at
His reflection proved several things, actually. It was a long cheval-style affair, set on dowels so it could pivot up and down. It had been in the room between this one and the suite belonging to his duchess. He’d hauled it in here himself after three menservants had delivered three pails of heated water to this chamber. He’d wanted one for soaping, one for rinsing, and the third one just because he was annoyed.
He hadn’t been when the groomsman, Rory, had deserted him at the front door. Or, rather, the lad had taken the mounts away after Neal dismounted and left him to face an array of uneven stone steps that led to the front door. At the second floor. Apparently, Straith Castle had been started as a tower house prior to being added and enhanced.
Neal had recalled that lesson as he’d considered the mass of dark stone.
There were reasons why living areas began with the second floor. The first floor was dark and cool, both necessities for food storage. There was a problem with pests, rats in particular. They also liked cool, dark places. There was always a risk of drunken clansmen riding into the place while still on horseback – a feat more than one nobleman had attempted in the past. This design was also a defense mechanism against a horde of invaders, assuming they survived a pelting of arrows and boiling oil during their approach. Having to mount a massive set of steps to accomplish a takeover would be an additional hurdle.
All of which went through Neal’s head before he’d shrugged it off. What did it matter how the castle had been constructed? By whom? And when? He needed to start discounting things. Financial world domination was the objective. Everything else was ancillary.
Everything.
Neal had started up the steps at a jog, taking them two-at-a-time, barely winded as he reached the top. The extra room in his trouser seats for such an exercise was a decided plus point. Perhaps he’d best rethink altering menswear too much. His new body was another bonus to his new reality, too. He was the same height – six feet, four inches – but he was several pounds heavier. The additional weight wasn’t flab. Neal had been in great shape in his thirties, but he didn’t recall possessing this much muscle. Strength. Or energy.
He reached the stoop. The castle had a large, iron-studded, wooden door. It was propped open, held that way with an iron statue in the shape of a reclining dog. Neal bounded onto a raised entrance stone. Dropped down onto a wooden floor with a thud that echoed. And then he’d entered a span of room large enough to hold a stockholder meeting. With all of his companies. At once.
And then he’d just stood there, absorbing the space, while working to keep his jaw from dropping.
The room was dim and carried a distinct chill, even for a sunny morning in June. Nobody was about. An arrangement of long, heavy-looking, wooden picnic tables and benches graced one side of the room. Hotel-sized rugs were scattered about the floor, looking like pools of color amidst all the dark wood. They each held a smattering of furniture. Couches. Chairs. Tables. Lamps. The amount of space was mind-numbing. He couldn’t imagine what energy it must take to keep this area at a comfortable temperature, or if that was even possible.
The ceiling was a good span above him. He couldn’t tell the construction material, but the support beams spanning the width were wood. Each one looked like it had been hewn from a single immense tree. There were windows in the highest level, sending sunlight down in multi-hued spears of illumination. The light touched on what they had displayed up there. Neal had lost the battle against his jaw. It had dropped. He’d spent years amassing a weapons collection. It was rarely seen outside of his vault. But he’d never seen the amount of weaponry he was looking at
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