2. When One Forgets the G-spot #3
Pascoe hums at that, wrinkled skin folding and deepening his frown.
He sits to the right of Gran, as he always has, loyal steward to the very bone.
“Her recent publication’s attempting to tie last week’s murders to us.
Citizens scream ‘serial killer’, and the Sheffolk Renewal Society says it’s this family.
I’ve been here long enough to admit that it’s difficult to explain the pattern of it.
We’ve never caught him or her, never come close to it—so the public has taken to claiming it’s not a person at all but a family cleaning house. ”
“But it’s not a person now, is it?” interjects Percy, and I pinch her side so hard she yelps. We’re already late; there’s no need for a bloody spotlight as well. “Just tell her it’s huskins doing the killing and see if she still wants Gran deposed. We wouldn’t survive without her.”
“And give her ammo to torch this family?” probes Susannah. “People can easily stomach murder. Witchcraft? They’ll stop their gossip and begin building pyres.”
Can’t disagree with her there, and the line of her mouth suggests she didn’t exactly catch the fact that Percy was joking. Beneath the candlelight, her pale skin is gaunt, and with those piercing eyes trained on us both, I wonder if we should’ve taken our chances at the graveyard.
There’s a lecture coming soon; I feel it.
Percy wrinkles her nose. “Ignore me. Please, continue.” She manages to stay quiet for another few minutes, but then Philip explains that the SRS wants new leadership, preferably elected through Victoria’s podcast. Percy snorts at that, drawing attention to us once more. “I’m sorry.”
“We could just kill her,” suggests Philip, still staring. Percy shifts in response, no doubt wondering why the sight of us conjures up images of murder.
Late twice , and they already want to resort to killing.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that we’ve only ever been invited to two—but who knows?
“They’d blame us instantly,” ripostes Susannah. “And we’d be proving their point that we’re in the business of murder.”
“Our business is the protection of the duchy and its line, last I checked,” says Philip, tearing his dark gaze from us and turning to the raven-haired woman opposite him.
“We’re just over a month from the Red Reaping, and the closer we get, the more huskins crawl from graves.
We don’t need some false messiah alongside it. ”
The Red Reaping is indeed creeping closer, though not the one the duchy sees.
Not the maze, orchard games, red lips and curated playlists.
No, our reaping comes earlier. It begins in the northern woods of Redford Castle.
Bare breath, bare skin and bare name where I’ll step into the circle the women before us have chalked so many times that the earth refuses to cover it.
There’ll be a pomegranate in my hand, seeds staring at me like a thousand small oaths.
At the Rosenthals’ orchard, the nobility will call it luck.
They’ve no idea that within these walls, Adelina was the first to truly reap, to take back what had been stolen from her.
She’d been to the dead and back, and she’d chosen a fruit that the spirits would recognise at first sight.
I like to believe she chose the pomegranate because it resembled her, what she endured that night.
Her broken heart, rendered in flesh and seed, like an organ cut open, its veins and chambers glistening.
Once pressed against her lips, that fruit is now pressed against ash, blood, and salt.
Every year, the daughters of her line reap again.
We crack open the same organ, keeping her promise.
Gran has always paid the fee since Great-Granny Priscilla’s passing, but this time it’ll be me offering blood to the wards Adelina built.
The land will hum underfoot once it has me, and the wards will cinch down on everything that crawls in Godwyn’s name, drawing the huskins back like dogs on a leash.
To ordinary eyes, they become drafts, heat ripples and a mere trick of the light.
Only old dogs will bark down dark streets, and infants will cry when facing a corner.
And the rest of Sheffolk keep on living, unaware of the faces watching them.
Just another thing I’ll be sacrificing for people who’ll never know.
Pascoe must see the look in my eye, because he twists his ring, clears his throat and then says, “We let the public chatter. Answer them after the Reaping, once the spirits have been dealt with and our heir is at ease. I’d say we’d all be a little more level-headed once there isn’t a threat of a murderer hanging around.
And once that’s done, nobody will even remember the name of the one who started this drivel. ”
I’ve seen Victoria’s YouTube videos; level-headed isn’t exactly her brand, and her theories are nothing but vibes and paranoia.
Put her in a room with us, and she’d start foaming at the mouth, yelling crap about witches and curses.
I mean, she wouldn’t be wrong, but fuck, she needs to chill out.
The very people she’s trying to ruin with her silly podcast are those keeping Godwyn’s spirits from feasting on their souls.
The circle continue to debate amongst themselves on what to do next, and I choose to watch Gran.
Over and over, the stitch goes through linen, guided by steady fingers.
To her left sits Moira, a middle-aged woman who inherited the Lanorythe Parish Burial Grounds—the largest and oldest cemetery in Sheffolk.
Thankfully not the one Percy and I desecrated tonight; Moira would’ve known it was us in a heartbeat.
Every week, she takes record. She knows when the ground sounds wrong, knows when a grave has been disturbed, when something has climbed out yet left the body behind.
It’s what led her to Gran’s doorstep all those years ago, her superstition that something odd was going on.
Now she keeps her ledger of names of those that Godwyn has turned into mindless slaves.
She brings them every Thursday night, and Gran sews their names onto black linen, binding spirits to flesh.
It’s only the second time I’ve witnessed a Stitching, yet it still gives me chills.
When Gran sets down her needle, the room goes quiet.
She lifts the stitched cloth and begins reading the names aloud.
Candle flames flicker, and my hand shoots to my ring for comfort, soothed only by the fact that Godwyn fears snakes.
It’s silly, the thought that whatever darkness Gran pulls from these names might circumvent me just because I don this serpent.
Percy nudges me, and I see she’s clutching her ring too.
As Gran speaks, Philip lights the brazier in the centre of the room, and when she’s finished, she tosses the cloth into the flames.
They respond as though they recognise her, turning into hands that tear at whatever they’ve been fed.
A faint hiss fills the room, growing in volume until I’m convinced I can hear the screams of those wrongfully condemned.
I hear them being dragged out, rescued from the fate Godwyn set for them.
Gran closes the brazier lid and mutters, “It’s done. Moira, scatter what’s left over their graves in the morning. As for the rest of you, you’re dismissed.”
Chairs push back, cloaks sweep against stone, and the meeting dissipates like smoke.
Footsteps fade down the corridor, but Percy forces us to linger as though that would make up for being half an hour late.
Gran’s stare tracks our movements from where she’s reseated herself at the table, this time with Moira’s ledger.
That steely gaze then locks on me and stays, even as I turn.
She says nothing else, but her words imprint themselves on my spine.
Percy believes she’s watching to warn us of punishment, but this isn’t the case.
She’s watching me to see how I’ll fit into her absence, how the needle will look in my hands—and my tardiness has only pushed me further towards inadequacy.
I’d take punishment over expectation any day, because the latter follows me into the shower and into bed, haunting me even as I try to find rest.
If that’s the legacy waiting for me, I need to break the mould before I’m poured into it.