Chapter 7 A Certain Mr. Rit Co

Chapter Seven: The Keeper of Keys

If the Finch wedding had been a symphony of splashes and sunshine, the next couple on Ellie’s roster promised a quieter, deeper harmony. Arthur and Beatrice Thorne were collectors. Not of passport stamps, but of time itself.

Their home was a curated cabinet of curiosities, a labyrinth of hushed rooms where every object held a story. A 17th-century astrolabe shared a shelf with a Victorian mourning locket. A faint scent of old paper, beeswax, and mystery lingered in the air. Their love story, they explained, had begun in the manuscript room of the British Library, arguing politely over the proper handling of a 12th-century psalter.

“We want our union to feel like a continuation,” Arthur said, his voice a soft rumble. “A new chapter added to an ancient, beautiful text. The setting must have its own story.”

Thus, Ellie found herself surveying the ‘Castle Lyne,’ a mossy, crenelated heap of history a few miles from town. It wasn’t a grand royal palace, but a stout, Saxon-era keep later gentled by Tudor additions, now operating as an idiosyncratic restaurant. Its flagstones were worn smooth by centuries of feet; its air was cool and smelled of woodsmoke and stone.

“The ceremony in the inner courtyard, under the old yew tree,” Beatrice whispered, her fingers brushing a tapestry on the wall. “The feast in the Great Hall. And we’d like to incorporate the Handfasting. The old way.”

Ellie’s clipboard twitched. Ancient traditions meant uncharted variables. But the Thornes’ energy was a calm, steady pulse. They weren’t seeking chaos; they were seeking continuity. They were, she realized, the calm eye in the hurricane of her professional life.

The animals, however, remained a universal variable.

Leo arrived with Noodle, his slender greyhound, who pranced on the flagstones like a nervous aristocratic ghost. Ellie brought Pickle, who immediately began sniffing for crumbs from medieval feasts. The Thorne’s own animal was a serene, ancient Basset Hound named Gibbons, who moved with the dignified resignation of a retired librarian.

“Right,” said Leo, watching the three canines circle each other. “Noodle’s scared of his own shadow, Pickle’s looking for a snack, and Gibbons… seems to be judging the architectural integrity of the Norman arch. This’ll be fine.”

The wedding day arrived, steeped in golden autumn light. The castle was magical. Guests, a mix of academics, artists, and gentle souls, arrived not by punt but by a vintage coach, adding to the timeless feel. They were the couple’s true tribe: people who spoke in footnotes and appreciated the patina on old silver.

The ceremony was profound in its simplicity. Under the gnarled yew, Arthur and Beatrice performed the Handfasting, their hands bound with a braided cord as an elder recited vows in Old English. The silence was deep, respectful, charged with meaning. Even Pickle sat still, head cocked, as if trying to translate.

It was during the transition to the feast that the one and only incident occurred.

The Great Hall was dominated by a single, impossibly long refectory table of age-blackened oak. On it stood the centerpiece: the Thorne’s prized collection of 18th-century objets de vertu—tiny, exquisite enameled boxes. As guests filed in, oohing and aahing, Gibbons the Basset, seeking his customary nap-spot, decided the space under the table was ideal. He lumbered beneath, his low-slung, generously-proportioned body…

Bump.

…gently nudging one of the table’s ancient legs.

A collective gasp froze the room. The entire, twenty-foot-long table gave a gentle, seismic wobble. A hundred porcelain plates shivered. And the collection of priceless boxes did a sudden, terrifying, synchronized shimmy.

Time stopped.

Ellie’s hand flew to her mouth. Leo went pale. Arthur and Beatrice simply watched, curious rather than alarmed.

The boxes danced on their little stands… teetered… and settled back into perfect stillness. Not a single one fell.

A beat of silence was broken by Leo’s explosive whisper: “Good GOD, Gibbons! You can’t just go around redistributing national treasures with your backside!”

A snort of laughter escaped Ellie, then a guest, then another. The tension dissolved into warm, relieved chuckles. Gibbons, utterly oblivious, sighed and began to snore beneath the table, now the guardian of the very treasures he’d almost toppled.

The feast was a marathon of laughter and stories, served on that wobbling but steadfast table. As twilight painted the lancet windows, music began—not a DJ, but a lute, a fiddle, and a drum. Ancient, circling dances were called. Soon, the hall was a whirl of linked hands and spinning bodies.

Breathless, Ellie fell out of the circle and found Leo leaning against a cold stone wall, watching, a soft smile on his face. Noodle and Pickle, exhausted, were curled together on Gibbons’s vast, warm flank, an inter-species pile of contentment.

“You know,” Leo said, his voice low amid the music. “After the Moss’s fur-apocalypse and the Finch’s aquatic insanity, I thought I’d crave a quiet church hall and a cup of weak tea. But this…” He gestured to the dancing, the laughter echoing off stone, the sleeping dogs. “This is something else. They’re not just getting married. They’re… adding a chapter. Curating a new room in their shared museum.”

Ellie followed his gaze to Arthur and Beatrice, now dancing slowly in the center, foreheads touching, utterly enclosed in their own ancient, new world. A pang, sweet and sharp, hit her heart. “It makes our clipboards and timelines feel a bit silly, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Leo said, turning to her. His usual sarcasm was gone, replaced by a quiet earnestness. “It doesn’t. We’re the… the keepers of the keys. We unlock the venue, we manage the chaos—be it feline or canine—so they can have this. We make the space for their story to happen.”

The music swelled. The couple kissed, surrounded by their friends, their history, their deeply weird and wonderful life.

Leo glanced down at their own animals, peacefully intertwined. “Look at that. Noodle’s using Pickle as a pillow. A miracle.”

“Maybe not a miracle,” Ellie said softly, the words leaving her before she could stop them. “Maybe just… the right setting. The right energy.”

Leo was quiet for a moment. Then, he offered her his hand, a ghost of his usual smirk returning. “Come on, Keeper of Keys. This is a Sellinger’s Round. Even a wedding planner and a disgruntled animal wrangler can manage it.”

And they did. They joined the circling, weaving dance, their hands clasped, their steps clumsy at first, then surer. Around them spun the centuries, the music, the joyful, ancient rhythm of connection. And as they turned under the smoky beams, for the first time, Ellie and Leo weren’t just thinking about the next wedding. They were, silently, secretly, wondering about their own.