9. Bloom Again
BLOOM AGAIN
FRANCESCA
T here are voices when I approach the drawing room, but they fall silent as I slip inside. They’re standing near the stained glass windows, and the one in the grey coat—Kairos, I hope—is the first to turn.
Oh God. I was so sure earlier, but this man looks exactly like the photo of Eric I screenshotted yesterday.
‘Identical’, they said: I knew that and have seen the pictures.
Thought I understood it, even. But that was before ‘identical’ became 6’4” of holy shit, there’s actually two of them .
There’s a 3% chance this isn’t Kairos I’m staring at.
Looks like him. Feels like the vibe he gives off on socials. Inconvenient if it turns out I’m wrong.
Maybe I should wait until he punches someone, then I’ll know for sure.
Stormy eyes sweep over me, and there’s a smile on his lips as if he said something inappropriate and wasn’t given enough time to savour it.
He ruffles his blonde hair but doesn’t speak.
He blinks at me like he’s expecting something to jump out of my skin.
Predictably, his gaze drops to the hem of my dress before his brows lift in surprise.
That stare drags up my legs, so achingly slowly, like he’s testing to see how long I’ll be able to withstand his attention.
I choose to look away, and my gaze then lands on the other one.
And oh . Oh wow. There he is. No mistaking it.
He doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the wall, just lifts his eyes and strikes me with a tempestuous gaze I’m not at all prepared to meet.
The distance earlier swallowed that shade, but now it’s a few feet away and devastatingly chilling. He’s staring, not rudely.
Not even curiously— that I could’ve dealt with.
But like he’s cataloguing.
Something within me recognises the echo that has haunted Redford all these years.
Godwyn survived in fragments, in whispers and half-erased sins, and faded portraits.
Only those fragments now piece themselves together until it’s tall, breathing and impossibly whole before my eyes.
How cruelly fitting that the bloodline that nearly devoured ours would stride unknowingly through Redford’s doors, carrying the name of the original betrayer.
Here stands the answer to the riddle I’ve been dreading. Two of them, in broad daylight, no less, making no effort to wait until darkness has crept in. Until I’ve fooled myself into believing those silly affirmations.
“Your Royal Highnesses, welcome to Redford,” I greet, letting the title purr.
“Francesca Sheffolk. Duchess-heir.” The hemline brushes against my thigh when I offer a delicate curtsy, keeping my eyes on Eric.
“My grandmother sends her apologies; she’s currently detained at the Rosenthal orchard.
We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow. ”
“The early arrival was unavoidable. My father arranged an earlier schedule. Apologies for the inconvenience,” Eric declares, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt like it’s strangling him. Then, he begins tapping the side of his leg.
Said so plainly, like he hasn’t felt the ghost of Adelina shoving him back, felt the stares of the windows and the corridors that breathed. Spoken like a man who believes the world carved a path for him and he has no choice but to walk it. As though that excuses everything.
“How odd,” I murmur, irritated at his nonchalance. “Suppose royals never really change, do they? Still take first and explain later.”
Redford, in all her petty glory, agrees with me by letting the empty hearth cough.
From the corner of my vision, I see Kairos flinch.
That earns me the eldest’s eyes. Properly , this time. They flick down to the scratch on my cheek. The majority of the swelling was reduced by the cold compress I applied to it before coming downstairs, but his focus is still immediately drawn to it. He notes it before moving on.
And then he commits to the full observation he previously denied himself.
Lecherous, I can handle; it’s easy enough to swat away.
Whatever he is doing, that unapologetic assessment, leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
His mouth twitches when he spots the lace at the hemline, like he knows it was worn on purpose.
I’m almost embarrassed for it. I want to roll my eyes, tell him to take a picture and be done with it, but my tongue is dead.
His brother breaks the moment and steps closer to extend a hand. “Prince Kairos Atherbourne. Second son. Professional buffer between Eric and the rest of the world.”
I shake his hand, proud of my correct assumption, then glance at Eric. He looks at me for a breath too long, waiting for Kairos to step back like the stage is being cleared for him.
For the main event.
Which, I suppose, he is, in a way. The room feels smaller when he steps forward and unfolds himself. He’s stupidly tall, like a Sim who had the height slider maxed out for no reason other than to be intimidating.
The movement is sluggish, his body still deciding whether I’m worth the effort or not. He extends a hand, the cuff of his shirt shifting just enough to reveal a wristwatch and ink. There’s a tattoo hidden somewhere there. Bullseye.
“Eric.”
Just that. No title. No flourish. But there’s something in his voice that makes me feel I should curtsy anyway.
My hand slips into his, and a slight shock of heat travels from his fingers to mine.
I wonder if he feels the recognition neither of us holds claim over, how history awakens and ghosts flinch away from the contact.
I left my gloves behind for this reason, aching for the gentle brutality of memories filling my lungs like water.
But my hunger meets iron, nothing but a pulse as steady as Redford’s foundations. The sick taste of failure floods my mouth as a private recognition flashes across his face. Like he felt me knock. He doesn’t shake, just lingers, thumb briefly brushing across my knuckles before he lets go.
Hm, I’ll find another way to pry him open.
Kairos, I’m starting to learn, opens his mouth even when there’s no need. “Don’t let his demeanour fool you. Eric’s excited to be amongst Sheffolk’s finest.”
The corner of Eric’s mouth twitches, a half smile I barely notice. “Thrilled,” he echoes his twin’s statement, voice drier than any sarcasm even Percy can summon. “We appreciate your hospitality, Lady Francesca.”
As I finally take note of the room, a wave of mortification washes over me.
“I hope you’ll forgive the lack of a formal welcoming committee,” I tell Eric.
“Shall I escort you to your rooms? Pascoe should arrive with your luggage soon enough.” It’s the most natural sentence, yet the words still get caught in my throat.
I feel the weight of two gazes: one amused and the other dissecting. “This way, please.”
Their shoes scuff against the stone as they follow me out into the corridor.
I’ve hosted foreign diplomats, but this feels different.
This feels like school . Or what I imagine school would feel like if Gran had let me attend.
I’m not talking about the cute uniforms or the strict schedules, either, but the corridors, where people walk behind you and whisper, waiting for you to trip.
Percy thrived in that kind of chaos, and Edmund did too.
Even sweet Gabriel loved his time at Valridge.
But I didn’t have that. I had tutors, and grief, and a castle full of ghosts. How did that help me? It didn’t. Because walking with two princes behind me makes me feel sixteen and transparent.
Lovely .
“We really are sorry about the inconvenience,” Kairos offers from behind me, and I briefly wonder whether the tension in my posture is obvious.
“Please, it’s alright, really,” I respond evenly, rounding the corner towards the stairs that lead to the upper west wing. “Although, if you plan to punch any of our staff, do give me advance notice.”
Too bold. Too bloody bold, Francesca.
I’m thankful they can’t see my face because I’m certain it’s contorted into the expression of one eating a lemon. But Kairos (bless his soul) laughs, and I glimpse back to see Eric watching me with startled amusement.
He dips his head and rubs his jaw. “Duly noted, my lady. I’ll be sure to submit a formal request before breaking any noses.”
I hide my smile under the pretence of pursing my lips and clearing my throat. The rest of the walk is mercifully less awkward. I speak clearly, with my hands folded behind my back, just like Gran taught me. Oil paintings hang high above us; generations of Sheffolk women watching as we pass.
My footsteps become a little quieter, like my mind is already telling my body to hide. Just in case either prince is comparing. Just in case the portraits tell them what I’m not. Just in case they’re wondering which ancestor I favour. Just in case they’ve already formed an opinion.
Just in case.
Kairos fills the quiet by asking questions about anything and everything. He doesn’t force it either; that’s what strikes something soft within me, something that reminds me of kindness without the weight of transaction. They’re soft questions, the ones I don’t have to think too hard on to answer.
With each one, I find something solid building beneath my feet; a foundation I can stand on, regardless of how desperately I wish to seal myself away in the cottage.
Kairos is always checking on me when he makes his next inquiry, not in a suspicious way, but rather attuned.
As though he knows I need something to hold onto.
It takes me about three minutes to realise he’s helping me build that foundation.