I’ve wanted to come back to this one for quite some time.
By the beginning of the third week, Carlotta, Duchess of Haversham, had finally begun to admit to herself that the Royal Army was not coming to take care of these walking dead. She felt this should not be seen as a reflection upon her: after all, she was one of the first to come to this conclusion. Most of the rest of the people in Windermere Castle were still fondly and foolishly expecting a dramatic rescue. She had quite enjoyed her own self-delusion, really.
Alas, wishful thinking was supposed to be something that happened to other people. A noblewoman of high rank (and good family) in the Imperial Republic of Briton needed to be considerably clearer-headed, even during the end of the world. Especially then, even. And at least she was in a castle. Carlotta was morbidly certain that many in her country were either making do with hasty barricades, conveniently isolated islands or lonely moors, or of course just dying at the hands of a ravenous mob of walking dead.
Three weeks of siege had suggested to her that the builders of Windermere Castle had been keen on wind-swept battlements; her chestnut hair was just now growing out to a length that would allow them to be properly tousled by the wind from the north. Those builders, however, had not quite had the budget to make the walls properly cyclopean. Against an army with cannon and flintlocks, or even trebuchets and arrows, the walls would have proved ineffectual; but against the walking dead they worked rather well. She felt no danger as she walked the parapets, and it definitely helped with the morale of the men.