A week after the masons began their work, a new vehicle, a sleek electric SUV caked with a fine layer of country dust, navigated the treacherous road to the castle. From it emerged a woman in her late forties, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, her eyes sharp and assessing behind stylish, functional glasses. She carried a leather satchel bulging with rolled-up plans and a high-end tablet.
Rex was mixing a new batch of mortar, his back to the courtyard, when he heard the car. He wiped his hands on a rag, his expression neutral. He had been expecting her.
"Monsieur Rex? I am Isabelle Moreau," she said, her voice crisp and professional, her English fluent. She extended a hand, then glanced at his mortar-dusted one with a barely perceptible flinch.
Rex gave a slight, amused smile and wiped his hand more thoroughly before shaking hers. His grip was firm, calloused. "Madame Moreau. Thank you for coming all the way out here. I trust the directions were adequate?"
"Adequate, if one enjoys testing their vehicle's suspension," she replied dryly, her gaze already sweeping past him, taking in the scaffolding, the piles of stone, the organized chaos of the worksite. "So. This is the 'Forgotten Dawn.' The photos did not quite capture… the scale of the project."
"That's why I need the best historical architect in the region," Rex said, leading her towards the gatehouse he was using as a temporary office. "Not just someone who can draw pretty pictures, but someone who understands how these buildings were made, why they stand, and why they fall."
Inside the gatehouse, the contrast was stark. One wall was covered in large-scale printed blueprints of the castle and village, annotated in Rex's precise handwriting. A modern laptop sat on a makeshift desk next to a pot of coffee. The air smelled of old stone and fresh print toner.
Isabelle unrolled her own plans on the clear part of the desk, weighting the corners with chunks of stone. "I have reviewed the initial structural surveys. They are… alarming. But fascinating. The core of the keep is 12th century, remarkably robust. The later additions, the Renaissance wings, are the problem. They were built for beauty, not for a thousand-year siege."
"I'm not planning a siege," Rex said, though the thought was never far from his mind. "I'm planning a festival. But it needs to be safe. And authentic."
Isabelle looked at him, her head tilted. "A festival. You are spending what I can only assume is a fortune to make this place safe for a temporary event? Most people would hire a security firm and put up fences."
"I have a different vision," Rex replied, his tone inviting no further questions on the matter. "I want it restored to a state of functional historical accuracy. I want the water mills to grind grain if there's water. I want the blacksmith's forge to be able to heat iron. I want the ovens to bake bread."
Isabelle's professional curiosity was piqued, overriding her skepticism. "That goes far beyond preservation. That is living history. It is also exponentially more complex and expensive. The mechanics, the materials, the permissions…"
"The permissions are my concern. The expense is my concern. Your concern is the design. I need a master plan. A phased approach. We start with the essentials: secure the main structures, make the gatehouse and one wing of the castle habitable, restore the primary well, and make the perimeter wall defensible."
She paused, her pen hovering over her tablet. "Defensible? That is an interesting word choice."
"A accurate one," Rex said, meeting her gaze. "This is a remote location. I want the walls to be a deterrent to vandals and looters. I want the gates to be strong. It's common sense."
Isabelle seemed to accept this, though a flicker of doubt remained in her eyes. She began sketching on her tablet, her fingers flying. "Very well. Phase One: Structural integrity and basic habitability. We will need to commission a new hydrological survey for the wells and the stream. The old irrigation channels in the fields within the walls… if we can clear them, they could be used again for your 'festival' gardens."
For the next two hours, they walked the site. Rex pointed out his priorities with the eye of an engineer and the nascent soul of a stonemason. Isabelle countered with the constraints of history and physics. They debated the merits of oak versus reinforced steel for the new gate, the feasibility of restoring the ancient pigeonnier (dovecote) as a potential food source, and the best way to channel rainwater from the vast roof areas into the cisterns.
Rex was impressed. She didn't just see a ruin; she saw the skeleton of a functioning community. She understood load-bearing walls and water tables with the same fluency she applied to Gothic arches and Romanesque foundations.
"You are not a typical client," she said finally, as they stood on the ramparts, looking out over the ten acres of overgrown fields and crumbling houses within the walls. "You think like a siege engineer. You are concerned with water, food, and walls. Most of my clients are concerned with en-suite bathrooms and wine cellars."
"I'm concerned with what lasts," Rex replied, his eyes on the horizon. "En-suite bathrooms are useless without a water supply. Wine cellars are pointless if there's no food to go with the wine."
Isabelle nodded slowly, a new respect in her expression. "I will have the preliminary master plan for Phase One to you in a week. It will be a plan for a fortress, Monsieur Rex. Whether you call it a festival site or not."
"Good," Rex said. "That's exactly what I need."
As her SUV disappeared down the track, Rex felt a surge of satisfaction. The Delahayes were his hands. Isabelle Moreau was becoming his brain. Piece by piece, he was assembling the tools and the team to bring his ark to life. The future was feeling less like a gamble and more like a blueprint being steadily, inexorably, drawn.