5. The Girl in the Water #4
Instead of being offended at my subtle insult, Kai laughs.
I’m beginning to think it’s a coping mechanism born from being related to me.
His laughter bounces smugly from wall to wall because the fucker knows just how sharply he’s dug the thorn.
He may mock it as some sort of fetishisation, but we all know it’s my need for structure, and calling it out only serves to remind me of the enigma that remains paused on Henrik’s laptop screen.
Merely glancing at it sends my mind into chaos.
Absolute fucking chaos.
Francesca Sheffolk refuses to climb into the box of any typeface I assign to her.
On paper, it sounds odd, probably even absurd, but I need this, especially considering I’ll be living with her for fuck knows how long.
Fonts are safe. Fonts are rules, and they make sense at times when people don’t.
Words can twist, and people can lie, but fonts I can trust.
And here is Francesca, leaving me staring at empty spaces.
In keeping with what I just said, Kai’s gnat-like attention span makes an appearance as he cuts through the tension with, “You know what nobody ever fucking talks about?”
“I’m scared to ask, but go on,” Henrik speaks slowly, eyes narrowing in apprehension. Because you never really know what’s going to come out of Kai’s mouth.
Seeing as Henrik didn’t immediately object, I lean back onto my desk, folding my arms and saying, “Please say something useful. Just this once. I’ll even fucking pay you.”
He snaps his fingers, like he’s just uncovered the world’s greatest mystery and is now determined to solve it. “Why Sheffolk hates us so damn much. Has nobody ever wondered?”
People have wondered; it’s just that they don’t speak of it. His question wasted the air in the room, and I give him a withering look. But he’s unfazed, of course.
The ass was born unfazed.
Henrik is less bothered by the volume at which Kai speaks and looks semi-intrigued. “Some ancient feud, I suppose. A broken treaty, perhaps, or somebody’s pride was insulted. That’s how most dynasties fall.”
But Kai is already shaking his head and sitting up straighter. Long strands of blonde have escaped from his elastic, what with how he’s been rolling around and ruining my bed.
“What if it’s something juicy? What if it was a love affair?” He groans, delighted. “What if one of our forefathers shagged a Sheffolk and then ghosted her? Feels on-brand for our lot; argue with a fucking wall.”
“God forbid politics are merely political,” I mutter dryly, managing to pull quiet laughter from Henrik.
Kai shuts his eyes, taps a lid with each index finger and then points at me. “Eric, look at me.”
“I’m looking.”
“Let’s say you shagged a duchess back in 1470, right?
Just hit it raw, then blocked her on medieval WhatsApp, which then leads to a feud.
Would you admit to your descendants that you fucked up?
” He doesn’t even let me answer. “ Exactly , so there’s a very good chance that actually happened.
All because of gorilla grip, Victorian-grade cooch. ”
Henrik’s voice cracks when he says, “Kairos, you fucking sewer rat.”
“One more sentence,” I warn, “and I turn myself in for fratricide.”
“You’re heading there anyway,” Kai emphasises, pushing to his knees and dragging my blanket with him. I’m so close to kicking him in the fucking head. “Go poke around the Sheffolk archives; find out whether their ancestors cursed our bloodline or something. It would explain you.”
“I suggest you don’t insult me when you’re already on your knees begging for me to do this.”
He only grins wider, and I rub my temples, annoyed that he knows how to be this ridiculous so early in the morning. The idiot goes on to plead with Henrik, explaining that there has to be a reason nobody speaks of it. If it were politics, then it shouldn’t be a taboo topic.
Either somebody spiked my coffee, or my twin brother is dangerously close to making sense. There’s no documentation, no clear answer in any of our books. It’s simply been… accepted. Like my fonts. Clean-cut, something nobody can question.
Except now, I want to. Not because of Kai or anything like that— fuck no —but because I’m looking at the laptop again, at Francesca’s polished smile.
When I glance up, Kai is grinning at me, having caught me zoning out. “See, even our brooding heir is curious. Imagine how interesting you’d be at dinner parties if you knew everything about some secret, messy feud.”
My glower doesn’t dim his smile in the slightest. Henrik chimes in when I refuse to entertain Kai with a response.
“On a less insulting note, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to know what happened.
If you’re serious about this, I can forward you Sheffolk’s archive index.
” He motions towards Kai, who picks up the laptop and brings my entire blanket with him.
“Obviously, it’s limited to public documents, but if you’re friendly enough with the young duchess, they might open the rest to you. ”
Kai picks up my blanket, balls it up and then tosses it back onto my bed. “ Brilliant . When you return, I expect a full report, hopefully involving betrayal and the murder of Gabriel Fairbanks. Justice for Baked Bean, I say.”
Henrik blanches. “The fuck?”
Kai’s moving towards the door, but I haven’t looked away from the clusterfuck that was once my neatly made bed. “You absolute cretin. My bed was made with hospital corners. Hospital corners. You will remake it?—”
Kai fumbles with the handle, mutters something about how he’ll come back later, and then he’s gone. I huff out an irritated breath.
Henrik snickers to himself and stands, slipping his laptop into the crook of his arm. “You know,” he murmurs, always the softer voice, “it really could help. Understanding them. Understanding her .”
“I know,” I say quietly.
He squeezes my shoulder slightly and takes one step towards the door, but I stop him. His brows bang together in confusion, though realisation hits when I grab his empty cup and shove it against his chest.
And because he’s my favourite brother, I try to sound kind. “Henrik, I expect that stain to be removed from my carpet by morning. I don’t care how. Get a cloth, summon God, but that stain will be extracted.”
My little brother tilts his head in that knowing way, and my spiralling thoughts nearly trip over their feet to halt.
“You just lost your mind over a coffee stain, and they’re sending you into a historical political feud.
This is going to be delicious.” He gives a mocking bow.
“Have fun storming the ancient matriarchy, Your Highness. My money’s on Lady Francesca winning. ”
I watch him leave with that insufferable calm smile on his face. The door shuts, and I’m alone again. Just me, my unmade bed, the coffee stain, and the horrifying possibility that some duchy-raised darling might be able to play my game better than I.
I might not believe in the curse they say trails Lady Homicide, but I do believe in secrets. The laptop is gone, but I can still see her face, and the more vivid it becomes, Henrik’s words begin to sound less like a joke and more like an omen.