Chapter 7
Sophie
My father insists on my moving into the castle so he can oversee my recovery. He took it personally that I didn’t call him last night when I was brought in.
I tell him I won’t need much of a recovery.
The doctors tell me it’s lucky I don’t need surgery, even though I can’t possibly imagine how toes would be so damaged as to require surgery.
Three of my toes are taped together and they gave me the ugliest shoe/sandal/foot box to wear.
The sole is like a wooden plank. and Velco straps, reminiscent of what a young child or a very old person might wear, criss-cross my foot.
It’s basically a strappy box for my foot.
I’ve never been all that fashionable, but I left whatever style I did have back on Second Street.
Along with the ugly box protecting my foot, I’ve got a shiny new pair of crutches to support myself. I tried them out this morning; I need practice, but I have no doubt I could manage on my own… if it weren’t for the stairs I’d have to climb to get into my apartment.
Or Mom’s house.
Not that I have any desire to return to my childhood home to allow my mother to look after me.
“She is not staying at the castle,” Mom snaps.
My worst fear has been realized—Mom arrived when Dad was still here, and now they have been going back and forth about this for about twenty minutes.
It’s really cutting into my nap time. Mom has no real arguments about me staying as a guest at the castle, other than her hate on the royal family, blaming King Magnus for the breakup of her marriage to Dad.
I love my mother, but I see her faults.
Her protests are doing the opposite of what she wants—I’ve started thinking that it might not be that bad of an idea to hang out at the castle for a couple of days. Even for a week or so until I’m able to conquer stairs again.
I remember how much fun I used to have during sleepovers in Lyra’s room. I used to love visiting the castle with Dad. He would let me loose with Spencer and Stella and we would explore everywhere.
But then there was the break. The blip, as Lyra calls it; when we went from being best friends to never talking.
All because of my mother, and her anger toward my father.
The rage that made her tell us lies about Dad and how he loved Spencer more than us.
And how he loved the royal family more than anyone.
She said he picked them over us. Hearing that, as an impressionable ten-year-old, does things to your head.
No more sleepovers with Lyra. No more being friends with the princes, chasing them around the gardens and following them into the dungeons.
No more having big brother Spencer in my life because he left to go to school in England soon after.
My mother made a mess of so many things, but she’s still my mother. I do love her.
But I’m tired of listening to her rhyme off all the reasons why I won’t be staying in the castle. “I’m going to stay at the castle,” I say loudly, breaking into the argument between my parents in my hospital room.
The semi-private room, so Mrs. Bertram and her broken hip get to hear the airing of dirty family laundry as well.
“There are stairs at my place, and stairs at your place,” I remind my mother. “I don’t want you to have to watch over me every time I need to go to the bathroom.”
“But I won’t be there to take care of you,” she huffs.
No. She won’t. And I hope she can’t read in my eyes that it isn’t a bad idea. “You can visit,” I say lamely.
Dad must know what I’m thinking. That if I have to listen to Mom’s negativity and schemes on how to make my step-father, the mayor, more popular than the king, I might head back out into the middle of the street and wait for another car to finish me off.
I won’t say that because it won’t make anyone feel any better.
There has been so much talk since the accident. And that’s what it was—an accident. But now, already there’s a new law about keeping sidewalks clear. Trucks have been added to clear the roads and spread salt, not to mention the new reduced speed limit in town.
Dad reported this like he thought I would be pleased.
No. Because I’m going to be blamed for all the changes. Because I couldn’t get out of the way.
And Ashton…
No one will tell me what happened to him. I know the police talked to him. I know my father spoke to him. I know he’s still in the hospital because I’ve seen his shadow pass the door to my room.
I know his shadow by now.
And I know he stole into my room when he thought I was asleep this morning.
I’d think it were sweet if it weren’t so weird. It’s Ashton Carrington, acting like he’s checking up on me.
Not going to happen.
My decision doesn’t resolve the animosity between my parents, but it does end the argument. They leave—separately—with Dad telling me under his breath that he’ll pick me up in the morning and get me settled.
At the castle.
And then I’m alone because Mrs. Betram was taken down for another round of X-rays.
I close my eyes, wishing for my books, wishing for my paints.
Wishing that none of this had happened to me.
I missed out on two of my shifts at Ye Olde Fish and Chips, as well as the rescue shelter.
I had to tell Ajax that I couldn’t cover one of their morning shifts, and Stella made Gunnar take an earlier flight so she could get back to me.
There’s been so much attention, so much talk, and I’m not used to it. I want—
The scuff of a shoe has my eyes flying open.
“Oh, hey,” Ashton Carrington says, trying to sound nonchalant, like I haven’t just caught him in my room, not two feet from my bed. “You’re awake.”
“I am awake.” I blink, fighting the urge to rub my eyes like a child. “And I’m wondering what you’re doing here.”
He shrugs. “Just checking in.”
“On me?”
“There’s no one else in the room,” he says with an edge to his voice. I don’t like it, but I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. It comes naturally, like the smirk and the I am more important than you attitude he portrays.
He’s not more important than me; he has more money than I do. He has more money than most people, but that doesn’t have anything to do with importance. He’s a billionaire, and he’s visiting Battle Harbour.
And this is why Ashton Carrington can’t be checking up on me. He’s a grump. A grouch as big as the Grinch. He’s an archetype of a typical brooding billionaire taken from the pages of any number of romance novels.
He’s here because he had the misfortune of being the driver of the car that struck me as I stood in the middle of the street, frozen like a deer in the headlights.
“I’m fine,” I tell him with an edge to my own voice. “You don’t have to keep looking in on me.”
Ashton looks almost surprised at my tone. “I’m not looking in.”
“No, this time you came all the way in.”
“I was just…”
I don’t know Ashton very well. I’ve become friends with his sister, but Ashton is an enigma in Battle Harbour, probably because the mix of disdain coupled with the ever-present smirk doesn’t endear him to the residents of town. People flock to Fenella and steer clear of Ashton.
Which is difficult, because he’s usually here with Basher in tow, and after the impromptu concert he set up with his band last fall, Basher has a lot of fans here.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he mutters, sounding very unlike Ashton Carrington.
It’s sweet—a word I never thought I’d use to describe anything about him. “I’m fine,” I tell him honestly. “What did the police say?”
He rolls his eyes, that beautiful dark blue colour that belongs in an advertisement for contact lenses. “They don’t want me leaving town in case they have more questions,” he says, heavy on the contempt.
“That’s why you’re still here?” I guess that makes sense, because why else would he still be here? I thought he would have skipped town as soon as he knocked me down with his car.
“No.”
He’s probably right. Ashton is a billionaire—at least his father is—and if he wanted to leave, there wasn’t much our police force could do, save lock him up in a cell. And his father, or Fenella, would bail him out right away.
Ashton doesn’t belong in a jail cell. It was an accident.
“I heard you’re going to be moving into the castle,” he says.
Now it’s my time to scoff. “I’m sure the entire hospital heard that conversation.”
“Your parents don’t seem to get along.”
“My mother dislikes my father. Calling them my parents implies they’ve done any parenting together. And I feel that might insult other parents who know what they’re doing.”
A slight twinge in his upper lip might be a hint of a smile, or might be Ashton trying to get something out of his teeth. “My mother dislikes everyone,” he offers. “Her favourite person in the world is the head bartender at the Ritz in Paris.”
“That’s…” I might have connections to the royal family of Laandia, but Ashton is steeped in privilege and wealth, like a strong cup of tea.
Fenella has that too, but the longer she’s in Battle Harbour, the less it separates her from others.
“Impressive,” I manage. “That she’s there often to know his name, let alone be her favourite person. ”
“Antoine,” he supplies. “Nice guy. Makes a decent martini, which is why Mom is so fond of him.” He adds a sardonic twist to his lip when he says fond, like he’s implying his mother isn’t very fond of him.
There’s no sense me feeling sorry for Ashton Carrington in any way. He’ll just turn up his lip and say something rude.
“I’m sorry about what happened. To your foot,” he says.
My eyes widen. Did he just… apologize? Again? “You already said sorry.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I don’t apologize,” he states with a firmness that makes me smile, because I clearly remember the apology.
It’s one of the few things I remember.
“You did. It was the first thing you said when you got out of the car.”
Ashton scowls. “I really doubt that. I shouldn’t have said anything of the sort to you, the victim of an accident, in case you took that as a measure of my guilt and responsibility.”
I blink. “I thought it was nice that you said sorry,” I say slowly. “And it was an accident. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. So was I. That’s it. I don’t hold you responsible.”
“You’re the only one who doesn’t.” For a moment, raw pain sparks in his eyes, and then it’s gone, so quickly that I wonder if I saw any reaction. He takes a step backward. “I’ll see you around the castle.”
I laugh wryly. “You really don’t have to.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to?”
“Well, because…” I don’t finish the thought because why would he want to come and see me? “I don’t know.”
He pauses, glancing at the door, and then at me.
And then the most amazing, wondrous, confusing thing happens.
He sits down.
Ashton Carrington takes the plastic covered chair, the one without much padding that my mother spent several minutes complaining about, and pulls it close to my bed.
I can only stare at him.
“So,” he says.