I'm deep in the editing/revision process of my original work, and I miss writing for something new and fun, so I thought I'd put down this idea that's been rattling around in my brain for a while. "I Capture a Castle" is my favorite book (though I'm not sure why) and I always wanted to see more of Stephen in it. So here you are, good readers. I Capture a Castle, as told by Stephen Cauley. - Lindsey
She's writing, sitting in the kitchen sink. I envy her that ability - to write in odd places - to write at all, really. I've been trying to write for an hour, tucked away in the barn between a hoe that needs to be sharpened and the seed potatoes that should have been planted last week if we're not to starve this year.
It's hard to talk to Cassandra, so I decided I'd try to speak her language, that poetry would forgive the blunders which prose does not. It feels safer to compare her eyes to starlight than to plainly state that it's all I can keep from doing not to stare from across the room.
I tried. I did, but the only words that ran through my mind over and over again were the stanzas of a poem by Robert Herrick, who is, by far, a better writer than I could ever hope to be. I was running out of daylight - and, if I'm entirely truthful - growing terribly hungry, so I gave up yet again, resigning myself to penning another man's words to say what I can't manage on my own.
I wrote as neatly as I could and changed up some of the words so Cassandra would know I meant them from to be from me, and not Herrick. Then I spent the last of the sunset, folding the paper tighter and smaller, plucking up the courage to give it to her. She said something of the meaning last time, only praising one or two of the phrases as though I'd taken a stab at writing myself.
They're in the kitchen; Cassandra, sitting on the drying board, feet planted in the sink, hunched over her writing, Rose subjecting the worn cloth of her best dress to a flat iron, and Topez is putting on eggs to boil. They look like sisters, of 16, 20, and 28, only the 28-year-old is the step-mother. It's odd when I think of Topez being married to Mr. Mortmain. It created a ruckus in the village when he first brought her home, but she's an artist, he's a writer, and nothing about this family has ever been usual.
Cassandra is the reason I stay. I wonder how she can see her own writing, what she even finds to write about, but I resist even peeking at the journal page as I carry a candle to set on the window sill beside her. Thomas says there's no point anyways. He informed me, once, that he'd exercised his rights as a younger brother and a scientific observer of the fairer sex, and Cassandra apparently writes in shorthand. Perhaps to save paper, perhaps because she knows words penned onto pages are nearly irresistible for peeks.
I do not peek, but I hear the poem hit her journal. "You're spoiling your eyes, Miss Cassandra," I say, more for the benefit of Rose, who is watching me with suspicion.
I move toward the pump, acutely aware of the sweat that has trailed lines through the dirt on my skin. I hear the paper unfolding on my left, but Rose peels the dress from the ironing board and flaps it on my right, surveying it so critically that I shift to hide the holes in my trousers. The one at the knee is new - a tear that I can mend myself - but there's a hole at my hip that unravels a little more by the day, in need of a patch. I've already tried with a bit of a feed sack, but it only made things worse.
But who would I ask for help? Rose would do the best job. She's not much for work, but she'll stoop to create a decent outfit. But I'm the hired help here, not her, and she doesn't let me forget it. Hired, that is, but seldom paid beyond room and board. I haven't received anything in three months.
I'd have better luck asking Topez, but she's from the world where clothing is often shed for the sake of art and modesty is a quaint memory. I have only one pair of pants, which causes a problem no matter who's mending them, but I feel if I asked Topez, I might not get them back without agreeing to sit for one of her portraits.
Which leaves Cassandra, only I'm not sure she can sew at all, and I fear asking would only embarrass both of us. I focus on the pump, waiting until my efforts produce a trickle of water, determined that if my pants can't be improved, my appearance can. Cassandra looks up from the poem and smiles.
I'm glad she's pleased. Too glad, perhaps, because I'm grinning and once I start it's hard to stop. Rose is going to ask what I'm smiling about. I splash my face, countering its heat with the icy well water. Even when my skin is darkened from the sun, it does little to hide any blush. I blame my mother, who used to tell me I was a darling with those rosy cheeks, which only made them grow brighter. My mother is gone now.
The tendency to blush, unfortunately, is not.