7. A Castle with Teeth #2
Her gates swing open with a creak after a guard steps forward to speak with the driver.
Philip , Kai reminds me when his attention is removed from us, unwilling to disrespect Mark Henry’s long-lost twin—who could probably bench press us both.
The car rolls through, and the gravel crunches beneath the tyres.
And not the modern type of gravel, either, the kind that still remembers the feeling of hooves and carriage wheels.
More trees line the driveway as it curves ( of course ), and then we’re face to face with Redford.
I say ‘face’ because she has one.
You can feel it: all the windows placed like little eyes, just watching me.
She knows why I’m here, and she’s not impressed.
There are bars on some of them, and Kai—ever the creative— mumbles that those rooms must’ve belonged to the witches.
The steel catches the sunlight like teeth, and the hair at my nape rises slightly.
Philip stops just before the main steps, but I don’t move.
Not yet. I’m staring straight at history, at a castle with bones older than half the country.
The stone is grey, darkened in some areas by rain and age, and towers rise unevenly in some places.
Redford looks as though she was built to withstand a siege, but nobody told the architecture that the war ended centuries ago.
It’s like she’s still waiting.
Still defending.
For the first time in a long while, I feel unwelcome. Not just politically; everybody knows I’m used to that shit. But personally. This place doesn’t want me here. Doesn’t want Atherbourne blood anywhere close to her, so she bares her teeth.
I kind of respect it.
Kai leans forward in his seat, unclicking the seatbelt. “Is it just me, or are there no guards?” His voice is tight, half joking and half not. “Not to be that royal ass, but shouldn’t we be met with people?”
He’s right. I haven’t said it aloud yet, but the absence of security has already injected itself into my nervous system. I’ve been trying to ignore it. There are a few of them, obviously, but not too many. Definitely not enough considering this place will be housing two heirs of Marzod.
Philip adjusts his mirror, then unclicks his own seatbelt. “There’s no need. Redford doesn’t let strangers in.”
Kai chuckles uneasily. “Right, right—of course, makes perfect sense.” He tosses me an expression that emphasises he doesn’t find it sensible at all. I snort. “But let’s just say somebody was to break in, like physically, and all that?—“
“Nobody who’s not meant to be here makes it past the gates,” Philip cuts in and unlocks the doors. The sound echoes through the car. “If Redford doesn’t let you in, you won’t get in.”
“You mean the staff, right?” Kai questions.
“I mean the castle.”
Philip slides out and steps towards the stairs, where a singular footman awaits.
The latter stands tall in a uniform of oxidised red.
My brain supplies the hex value before any other adjective: 480000.
I eyedropped it straight from the ‘Welcome to Sheffolk’ PDF when I couldn’t sleep on the plane.
The material looks thick, heavy and woollen, not at all modern, with golden buttons glinting like eyes.
He stands perfectly still as Philip speaks.
Kai turns to me and blinks rapidly. “What the fuck does that even mean? Does the castle, like, decide for them or something?”
I don’t have an answer for him. At least, not one that won’t unsettle him further. “I’m starting to believe the Sheffolk women really are witches. The old kind, the ones who bury hearts beneath the floorboards.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Am I?”
Without staying for his response, I slide out of the car and listen to the way the gravel cracks beneath my feet. In another life, I could’ve been a soldier returning from war; instead, it feels like I’m about to enter one.
My brother rounds the car and stops beside me, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.
Redford’s shadow looms over us, and a strong gust of wind hits our backs, almost strong enough to push us forward.
Kai side-eyes me, voicing what neither of us wants to.
It feels like the castle is pulling us forward, and any moment I expect the doors to be thrown open like a hungry mouth.
A prickling sensation washes over me, and I look up.
There’s movement higher up, by one of the windows in the west wing.
Just a flicker at first, but then there’s a silhouette.
Watching. It’s a woman. I don’t know how, but I know.
When I squint, I can almost make out the long locks of hair and the posture of somebody who stands with poise. She doesn’t move, just watches.
I swallow dryly, breathing steadily through my nose. The air fogs before me, disappearing almost immediately. I don’t want to be the first to look away.
Kai shifts closer. “Eric, there’s someone?—”
“Yeah. I see her.”
But when the fog clears again, the silhouette is gone. The feeling inside my chest, however, still hasn’t left. Philip approaches with the footman and begins to unload our luggage.
Something creaks above us, a low, grating noise, like the castle itself is exhaling. Kai flinches. “Foundation settling,” Philip mutters at seeing his reaction. “The stone reacts to the cold.”
Maybe. But that didn’t sound like weatherly discomfort. That sounded like recognition, and Kai knows it too. Nothing about that was age.
It was a deep, ancient voice without a breath saying, ‘We know what you are, Atherbourne. And we haven’t forgotten.’
W e were told someone would be with us in ten minutes.
It’s been twenty. I know because I counted every tick of the ancient grandfather clock in the corner.
“So this is the famous Sheffolk hospitality,” I mutter grimly, taking stock of the prison cell they shoved us into. Don’t get me wrong, the place is pretty, but I’m not going to pretend it’s something that it’s not.
Kai’s positioned himself on the arm of a chair, sitting with the concentration of a man teetering on the edge of a cliff.
He hasn’t spoken yet, but I can feel his anxiousness like a hum at the back of my head.
I make a little bet with myself, certain that he’ll say something in the next thirty seconds, judging by the way his foot taps against the carpet.
He proves me right. “This is weird.”
“ Weird . That’s one way to put it.”
Another would be disrespectful. An action reeking of pride. If I wasn’t so fucking irritated, I’d be impressed.
“Did they forget about us or something?” he asks me, beginning to drum his fingers against his knee. I can almost see those little anxious bugs crawling all over him, making him uneasy.
“They know we’re here. It’s purposeful, to make us feel small. Old families tend to do this sort of thing.” Kai shifts again. “It’s clearly working on you.”
He stands up, moving to the stained glass window. His fingers nervously tap against it for two beats before he pockets his hands. “And what, it’s not working on you?”
I assess the room one more time. “Depends on what you mean by working. There’s no fire going. No staff. No tea. Yes, I’ve noticed. Am I unnerved? No. I’m paying attention.”
For a moment, Kai makes me feel almost nostalgic, what with the way he looks at me after I finish speaking.
Always were we referred to as the odd one and the loud one.
The prince and his shadow, except I was the latter.
Kai never really studied. He didn’t need to, not when I sat four desks to the right with folders colour-coded and my notes outlined by week.
For the first twelve years, I pretended that I belonged at his side.
I gave the wrong answers on purpose sometimes, biting my tongue as though waiting for the other children to catch up didn’t make my teeth ache.
Eventually, I let go of the pretence, and they had me skip three grades by the week’s end.
Kai stayed behind, thrown off balance in a classroom where I no longer was.
But my brother is nothing if not clingy, and I say that with love.
Before every exam, without fail, and even after I jumped another grade, he would begin his ritual.
Loitering around me. Circling like a hound with a scent.
Then he’d start asking questions he already knew the answers to, but he asked because he needed confirmation.
He’s looking at me like that now. Same tilt to his head, same false calm draped like a blanket over his anxiety.
Like he wants to crack open my skull and understand all the information I’ve collected.
Only this time, the question isn’t about a syllabus.
There’s no bell to mark the hour, no teacher to collect scripts.
It’s Redford and rot pressing against the edges of our minds.
Whatever answer he’s expecting from me, neatly wrapped as always, it won’t help him. It won’t help either of us. Because I can barely understand this place myself.
I draw breath, about to attempt comfort in that stilted way Henrik would laugh at me for, but then the door creaks open.
The sound is stretched, loud and has a distinct similarity to the screeching of an upset infant.
It echoes in my ears, and Kai flinches. A man steps through, his name already taking shape in my mind, thanks to the thorough stalking my brothers assisted with.
Hamish Marathid.
He looks like his dead brother…
That must haunt him.
There’s a ring with the Sheffolk seal on his left middle finger, right next to his golden wedding band.
It catches my attention as he folds his hands before him and clears his throat.
Something about him reminds me of Henrik; perhaps it’s the way he squares his shoulders, his eyes passing over me and heavy with old suspicion.
I notice it immediately, a certain softness around his stare. It’s not kind or frightened but bruised. His cheeks are a little too flushed, the skin around his nose is raw, and there’s a faint glisten to his eyes that evokes memories of Kai during allergy season.
Either that, or he’s been crying.
“Your Highnesses,” he bows his head before meeting my stare, his expression taking on that particularly pinched one I see whenever people realise they don’t have a fucking clue which prince they’re talking to.
“I’m Lord Hamish Marathid. I serve on the Duchess’s Assembly. My mother is, well, away, just at the moment. As is His Lordship. They weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
His voice is Georgia Bold—tradition wrapped in a wrinkled suit, the embodiment of functionality. Kai peers sideways for a moment, and I give a subtle nod. This man isn’t dangerous. This is a fragile being, with no real voice save for the performance he’s giving.
A simple second son.
Kai takes initiative. “Yes, plans were changed. Apologies for the inconvenience, Lord Hamish.”
“Hamish is just fine,” he shoots back with a nasally laugh, sounding embarrassed by the formality. It makes me wonder; for a man with his profile, I’d expect him to revel in the use of his title. Hm. I prod at what’s beneath his performance
He’s been crying. Definitely crying.
“I’m afraid I should be the one offering apologies,” he continues, cheeks flushing further at seeing the empty end table and lack of other living beings.
“We’re not strangers to protocol, I promise you.
Regardless of the unexpected arrival, it’s inappropriate to leave you both standing around with no refreshments or a welcome. ”
“We weren’t kept waiting, Lord Hamish,” I say, and the formality makes his smile glitch. “We’ve been given time to observe. I thank you for that.” Hamish doesn’t speak right away, though I see his Adam’s apple bob.
I’ve been lied to by better men than him (my father not included).
They’ll make it sound like a footman’s fault, like our early arrival really did send the entire estate into disarray.
But it wasn’t that. This was intentional, and Kai knows it too.
There’s my answer, repeated again, though wordlessly this time.
It’s Kai’s turn to nod. He tilts his head in that infuriatingly affable way and throws Hamish a bone by breathing an affectionately scolding ‘ Eric ’ at me.
“No need to apologise, Hamish. We weren’t waiting long, and I’m sure the castle needed a moment to adjust to the presence of two Atherbournes.
I’m surprised we didn’t burst into flames upon entering. ”
A joke. I nearly gag.
He’s too charming and full of utter shit. Hamish laughs at Kai’s words, then shakes his head, and I see that relief settle around his shoulders. He’s confirming a suspicion: Kai is the polite one. Safe . And he likes that.
Hamish looks towards me like he’s expecting the same, as if Kai’s diplomacy has bought him comfort. He thinks the storm has passed, but I’m still watching him. Still cataloguing. My expression doesn’t shift, and when I don’t say anything, he looks away first.
“I’ll fetch Lady Sheffolk the Younger for you. She ought to be the one to welcome you properly, given her standing. While you wait, I’ll ensure something is sent to your quarters. A gesture to mend what shouldn’t have occurred.”
The words are kind, but the pivot is abrupt. He’s removing himself from the conversation under the guise of defence. He’ll be passing the tension to someone younger, someone softer and easier to blame if his attempt at pride goes tits up.
It’s a coward’s move.
He walks out in the exact same way he entered: without apology and without invitation.
The door creaks again, and as he crosses the threshold, the light from the window catches him all wrong.
Behind him, his shadow rolls out, long and strangely shaped.
For a breath, just a single fucking breath, it splits. Doubles .
There’s a second one, moving with him but not as him.
I don’t blink, but I do feel my skin prickle.
The shape is slightly taller, like a memory given form.
My heart is beating faster. I watch it curl, like that ghost is trying to keep him from leaving the room, imploring him to set a better example for their family.
There’s a hesitation in Hamish’s stride.
Just one step.
But he doesn’t stop, and the shape of the other man vanishes into nothing.
The door clicks shut as sound crawls out, making the air so thick I can feel my lungs reacting. Kai’s hands are clenched at his side as he stares at the floor. His stillness reaches for mine, an invisible hand trying to grasp onto my coat like a terrified boy. Neither of us speaks.
Because there are some things you don’t say aloud.
Not in a place like this.