8. The Colour of Her Eyes #2
The man is asking me to stop but I won’t—I keep fighting, keep kicking his shins and biting at his fingers, baby teeth meeting the metal of a signet ring. I fight until I’ve dragged myself from the memory, stumbling back into the shower wall with my hands around my throat.
Oxygen tastes like blood, yet I drink it regardless.
I drink it in fear because my lungs are aching and my throat still feels the press of his ring.
It makes no sense. There shouldn’t have been a man in the water with me, but his scent’s still in my nose.
Another warning. Another cruel joke at my expense.
Another version of his voice whispering ‘Remember, little duchess’, when all I wish to do is forget.
The water grows hot, and I wash myself at lightning speed, still choking on every second breath. I don’t stay longer than needed before I’m grabbing my towel and drying off like my skin is made of porcelain. Thanks to Lydia’s new candle, my room has a calming lavender scent.
There’s still an ache in my chest, I’m still counting backwards, and soon enough, I’m in my underwear and standing before my wardrobe.
It feels as if I’m dressing a stranger, but I grab the green dress anyway and slip into it.
My fingers are trembling with nerves, and I huff before letting my hands fall.
With no time to dry my hair properly, I twist it into a low knot with a few tendrils framing my face.
Lydia would’ve had me ready in seconds, without even a flicker of worry on her face.
‘Your hair never listens to reason, meisie’ , she’d say, dragging a brush gently through the waves.
‘Just like your mommy’s. ‘ The ache blooms in my chest, and I almost dial for her anyway, just to hear her voice in that soft, lilting accent.
I look into the mirror and wonder what she’d say.
The dress is cinched tightly at the waist with a skirt that flares mid-thigh, saved only by a pair of black opaque tights.
Scandalously short for a duchess, with sleeves that fall heavy and wide enough to hide daggers up each arm.
One wrong bend and the ghosts will see more than they should, but I wear it anyway because it looks like hers.
Adelina.
She wore green too, the night after she killed Godwyn and took a knife to her wedding gown.
Same cut, same flared sleeves and hemline with the black lace.
My hope is that it reads like history; whatever memories lie deep in Eric’s bloodline, I want it to recognise me.
Recognise this colour and the blade it carried across centuries.
The toilet flushes suddenly from beyond the open bathroom door.
I freeze. There’s nothing but the sound of my heartbeat thundering in my ears and water rushing down pipes.
Then comes a faint wet slap . The puddles I’ve left on the tiles are rippling, and I can see an indent of feet that are too large to be Tommy’s.
Another slap, and the footprints make their way forward, water gathering in places to make space for a heel, for some toes.
It walks straight towards me, leaving wet little marks on my room floor.
“What are you doing?” I ask it, praying my voice doesn’t sound as frightened as I am. The last thing I need is to give it ammo. Redford may be full of ghosts, but they’ve always been content to keep to themselves. But it doesn’t stop, just keeps walking, and paranoia rears its ugly head again.
Loyal people aren’t the only ones who died here , supplies my mind.
Godwyn’s men died here too; his friends, his servants—his sympathisers.
Not all passed with Adelina’s name upon their tongue, seeking blessings from the lady of this castle.
Some went screaming, cursing our family name to hell and back.
“Fuck you,” I mutter to whoever’s listening, refusing to step back in fear.
Some part of me has already realised what’s at play.
When I was little, the ghosts would sometimes wake me up, drag me from bed and trap me in my blankets.
Sometimes I’d wake with my back burning and find deep scratches all along my spine.
After a good crying session in Gran’s arms, she’d rock me back and forth, tearfully whispering into my hairline that they were never allowed more than that.
The dead can’t interfere with the test, but Godwyn’s loyal do enjoy circling the duchess-heir, taking liberties where they can.
Bruises in the shape of hands would bloom on my biceps, on my calves, and if they were truly gutsy, sometimes even around my throat.
Just enough to remind me that this house is theirs as much as mine.
They stopped when Gabriel died.
Now, I watch a wet footprint appear on the wall, toes upwards as though put there to climb.
And then it does. Two handprints, and then up, up, up they go, an unseen body crawling towards my ceiling.
I take the first step back, tilting my head to keep an eye on every movement.
They haven’t done this in so long. The prints stop directly above me.
There’s probably a knife in its hand; if it lets go, it’ll fall right through my skull—but these are the fears of a little girl talking.
Don’t move , I tell myself, because they always notice when I do. This is the part they enjoyed, watching the anticipation of it all nearly kill me. I think back to how tight they used to hold my pink blanket around me, suffocating me until the first panic-sob broke through the material.
Always stopping their cruel game just before I shattered.
But at twenty years old, after a lifetime of living with them, I don’t think I have enough left of me to put together if they decide to play again.
“If you’re going to do something,” I say, gritting my teeth against the panic, “just do it.”
At first, there’s nothing, just the faint sound of the pipes still burping the last of the water.
Then, a heavy whoosh cuts through the air as a weight drops down from the ceiling.
Something scratches across my face and my head whips to the side, eyes watering against the burning in my cheek.
Only a heartbeat later, the room’s breathing again and the oppressive presence is gone.
When I blink through the tears, the prints on the floor, wall and ceiling are gone, as though I hallucinated the whole thing.
But my cheek still throbs.
I stumble back towards the mirror and stare at the single thin scratch slicing across my left cheek. Just shallow enough not to scar, but still angry enough to inflame the skin. And I’m supposed to meet the princes like this?
“Shit,” I breathe, hissing as I dab around it.
Perhaps I can blame it on the cat I don’t own, maybe spin a story of the stray animal that crept in through an open window and lobbed itself at the duchess-heir’s face.
The humour tastes sour beneath the fact that whatever peace I had with Redford is now over.
A knock on the door startles me back into the present, and Hamish steps in for a moment.
I track the lines of fatigue on his face, subconsciously searching for injury.
If Godwyn’s game is still rolling, then I’ve painted a target on Uncle by confiding in him.
I’ve made him more vulnerable than he already is.
“You’re aware that they’ve arrived?”
“I saw,” I respond, turning away and sliding some rings onto my fingers, just in case I need to fidget during any awkward silences.
“They’re waiting in the drawing room.” His gaze lingers on how the bathroom door is thrown wide and the splashes of water from where I practically scrambled out of the shower. He finally takes a good look at my face. “Good lord, Chess, what happened to your cheek? Are you alright?”
“Just a terrible altercation with the door,” I lie, and he only tilts his head. The fidgeting begins. “I’m fine, Uncle. Why wouldn’t I be?”
That’s a stupid question to ask, like the man wasn’t consoling me only an hour ago after I found the locket of my dead sister. I barely hold back a wince, but Hamish just gives a gentle smile. “You look a little pale too, love. That’s all I’m saying.”
“It’s the lighting in here.” I aimlessly wave a hand, praying he doesn’t bring up the locket. Hopefully, he doesn’t see the panic in my gaze I’ve yet to douse. “Makes me look like I’ve seen a ghost.”
Judging by his tiny wince, we both know that was the wrong choice of words. Goodness, if I can barely handle talking to him, I’m sure the meeting with the royal heirs will go splendidly. Maybe I’ll just combust now and save everyone the effort.
Mercifully, he lets my lie slide. “If you say so. I should probably go check on Percy. Is she still in your cottage?”
A genuine smile pulls at my lips. “Curled up in my bed like it’s hers.”
His eyes go dark at the mention of her comfort, and he looks tired in that way that adults get when they feel like they haven’t done enough.
Edmund. The divorce. Percy. Edith. It all lives behind his eyes.
He wants to say something. Maybe it’s a thank you for always making space for Percy, but if he tries, I’ll have to stop him.
There isn’t a world where I won’t make space for her.
He clears his throat like he’s about to speak again, but he doesn’t.
Nor does he meet my eyes, at least, not fully.
It seems he’s embarrassed to have let the grief show.
I don’t blame him. That’s the thing about men like Hamish: they’re taught how to bear all these emotions but not how to name them.
He gives me one last encouraging smile before excusing himself.
I stay where I am for a moment longer, then turn to the mirror. What I told Uncle wasn’t entirely wrong; I do look like I’ve seen a ghost. Edmund once said I remind him of a tragic painting, the kind that gets locked away because it unsettles the guests. Said that my eyes are lake water in summer.
That pale, glassy green that pretends it can’t hurt you.
The same green I saw as my world caved in.
The same green that my family saw when they stopped breathing.
I hated that I didn’t have Lucy’s ocean-blue eyes.
Hers was summer and freedom, the kind of blue that made people smile.
It was loud. When I cried about it, which was frequent , Dad told me my eyes were quiet, the kind of water that keeps secrets, which was way more interesting than stupid summer (Mum’s words!).
And they were right.
It kept secrets.
It kept them.
“Pft, lighting ,” I scoff to myself, slapping my right cheek lightly to bring some colour to make it more like its twin.
Both Hamish and I know that’s not the answer.
But lighting is easier to laugh about as opposed to saying that my body’s been a graveyard since I was six.
That I’ve been living with ghosts for most of my life, and they’ve made a home beneath my skin.
The ghosts don’t leave, even as I spare another few minutes to apply some mascara. I smooth my dress one last time, then attempt a little grin. If Gran were here, she would say I look perfect. With her praise in my head, I turn towards the door and step out into the corridor.
Time to greet the living.