11. Turn Your Gaze Away
TURN YOUR GAZE AWAY
ERIC
T he archive looks nothing like I expected.
Which is to say, it doesn’t look like it belongs in a castle at all.
It’s tucked away at the end of a narrow corridor on the ground floor, and the entrance has sliding doors.
Upon entering, I’m met with an area sleek enough to be mistaken for a gallery.
The walls are lined with temperature-controlled glass cases, and there are LED lights framing all of the portraits and plaques.
It’s an immediate contrast to the corridor and any other part of the castle.
Francesca explains that this used to be tucked away in a dusty corner of the basement apartments, close to where the castle’s legal advisor lives.
For decades it served as more of a records room where files and artefacts piled high until her uncle decided they could turn it into a museum of sorts, a way for the public to learn about Sheffolk’s history. Over time, they elevated it to a proper archive, and I sense her pride in the new design.
She doesn’t walk at my side, always a few steps ahead, where I can watch her. As she speaks, she doesn’t turn around to check if I’m listening, kind of how my father carries himself.
Except this time, I’m listening. I tell myself this is damage control, that if I nod and appear interested enough, I can wrestle this situation into something salvageable. She excuses herself for a moment to go find the key; I’m not paying attention to that last bit.
There’s a quiet ping from the pocket of my trousers, and I slide my phone free. The groan is instant.
Heir she could be thinking I’m a complete and utter weirdo, and every expression would still look the same.
To move things along, I urge her, “You were talking about Lady Athena. Please, continue.”
She doesn’t. Instead, she faces the sealed glass and cuts through my composure with a single question, “Why did you punch that diplomat’s son in Milan?”
The back of my neck goes cold. I think I stop breathing for a second, but not because I’m embarrassed.
I mean, that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done, not even close.
Because I didn’t expect her to ask. Definitely not here: not now, in front of Athena’s famed sex letter that I’m semi-curious about.
I watch her carefully, drinking in her stance and her word choice, and try to font her. But she’s shifting again, straddling the line between Baskerville and something else I can’t get to right now.
Which should fucking scare me.
I swallow. Hard . “Why?”
“I’ve known you for what, an hour? Maybe two.
” Her voice comes quietly. “You don’t exactly strike me as someone who willingly goes to nightclubs, let alone starts fistfights.
You’re too—what’s the word—tightly wound.
I’m asking because the tabloids say you lost control. But you don’t lose control, do you?”
Instincts tell me to deflect, but I can’t. Because I know what she’s doing. And worse—I recognise it. She’s reading me. I try to breathe evenly, but she’s not wrong. Not even in the slightest.
“No,” the word leaves me with my next breath. “I don’t.”
It’s ridiculous. I read people. That’s my game.
Ever since I was a young boy, when my father sat me on his lap during meetings and I learned to read shoulders, the way lips moved and held back what they wanted to say.
How smiles hid darker machinations and laughter could be grating.
I’ve reduced all of those into fonts, into something legible, so I can stay steps ahead.
And now that scrutiny is turned on me.
“So what happened in Milan, Prince Eryxon?” She uses my formal name as a scalpel. I feel it down my spine, feel the blood dripping down my back.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “He insulted my brother.”
I regret them almost immediately, but Francesca’s looking at me with big eyes, and I can’t stop myself from confessing. Every sentence tastes like ash in my mouth.
“He said Henrik looks like the type of boy who likes to be taken apart quietly. That he was born to be bent over, not to rule.” A breathy sigh of understanding escapes her.
“I didn’t warn him. Didn’t check if any cameras were watching.
I hit him. Shattered his nose with my ring.
Security pulled me off before I could go for the ribs. ”
It feels weird to say the truth aloud, not the script that my father wrote out. There’s no spin. No damage control. Just the plain truth and the faint pressure in my chest from the memory.
I think of the message I shot off. You’re both vermin and I hope you die. It’s practically a love letter, the way I say it. That’s our language: dry, bitter, and layered on the outside. But it can never encapsulate what we mean.
The truth is, I’d kill for both of them. Crown or not.
Even Kai with his porn disaster and Henrik with his piercing and irritating stare. Even when I’m tired. Even when they piss me off so badly I want to toss myself out the window.
Francesca looks up at me with compassion, and that’s way worse than the judgment I usually get.
Because I didn’t follow her to be understood.
She clocks my discomfort, then wordlessly turns to the case.
Unlocks it. The parchment she pulls from within is yellowed but well preserved, and she holds it as one would something dangerous.
When she unfolds it, she looks up at me for a beat, then reads, “ If you cannot stomach the fire beneath my skin, then turn your gaze away. I am made of flame, of desire, and I will not beg for your water. ” Carefully, she offers it to me.
There’s more to it than what she read, but I don’t think she expects me to read the rest. So I don’t.
“We like to joke that it’s about sex, but I don’t think it is, not really. ”
I catch the words ‘moist cock’ but decide to amuse her anyway. “How so?”
“She loved her poet, or at least, I’d like to believe so.
She wrote this letter knowing it would be made public to shame her, but she didn’t care.
All she cared about was what mattered to her, like the poet.
And daring to let the world see the truth of it.
” Francesa’s eyes lock with mine, and my lungs suddenly feel too big for my ribcage.
“You hit that manchild to protect your brother. I wouldn’t call that losing control. I’d call it loyalty.”
Something inside me shrivels up, and I nearly wrinkle the parchment as my fingers itch to curl into a fist. She just told me exactly what I expected to hear from my father.
Praise, of a sort. Acknowledgement . Maybe even appreciation. And I’m getting it from this fucking stranger.
I’m compelled to say something witty, something that could potentially ruin whatever this moment is. I could point out that Athena was still an adulterer, but I have a strong suspicion Francesca would see right through it. She takes the letter and places it back where it belongs.
Her hands don’t shake as she seals the box.
But as I slip them into my pockets, mine do.
They fucking tremble.
To distract myself, I realise the portrait I’ve been zoning out on looks vaguely familiar. Francesca sees where I’m looking and provides context. “Duchess Priscilla, my great-grandmother.”
“She looks exactly like Duchess Sylvaine.”
Francesca steps aside and traces the woman’s smile with a finger. “Don’t let her hear you say that. Gran lost her mother when she was only sixteen and paid for her inheritance with grief.”
A common currency in Sheffolk, it seems , but the words hide beneath my tongue.