11. Turn Your Gaze Away #2
Something tells me she hears anyway, because her mouth twitches into an amused little grin.
The next portrait she leads me to depicts a severe-looking man with a high forehead and unsettling black eyes.
His doublet is stained crimson, and in his left hand he holds a dead raven, the reason for his grin, I presume.
Francesca nods towards him and says, “A great uncle of mine. Bastien Sheffolk. In 1533, he set sail for a land he claimed to have seen in his dreams. They found his ship close to Athens, and the entire crew was slaughtered. Bastien wasn’t aboard.”
The longer I stare, the more I feel the wrongness of this painting.
Bastien’s onyx gaze swallows me whole, and I wonder what lingered behind those depths to send him off on such a perilous journey.
I imagine him before me, giving life to the image until I convince myself I can ask him.
Though the mere idea is impossible, I hear the answer anyway.
Bastien wanted out , and they thought him mad for it.
From Bastien, we move onto a different frame, cracked with age, and within it is a scarlet-haired girl, no older than twelve. Francesca brushes dust from the canvas, stroking across the girl’s solemn face with a faraway look.
“Lady Thomasin Sheffolk. She should’ve been Duchess Thomasin.
Historians can’t agree who it was that convinced the entire estate that it was under siege.
Guards then tricked Tommy into hiding in the undercroft cupboards.
Whose command? We’ll never know. Once the farce was over, they searched everywhere besides the place she was ordered to hide. ”
Her fingers lower to Thomasin’s delicate hand.
“Years passed, and the title skipped to her younger half-sister. At least, that’s what records say—half of them are fragments too, with dates left blank and pages torn out.
We don’t even know when she was born; archivists placed her in the mid-to-late 1400s solely because of the ink, style and vellum matching others used here in that period.
They filled the gaps with what they think happened. ”
The girl’s sad gaze bores into mine, and the painting fucking blinks.
I stare harder, but the brat has the audacity to look bored.
Retinal fatigue, I decide, then rule that shit out because that’s even more absurd than oil paint coming alive.
Francesca waits for a reaction, but I’d rather let the canvas strangle me than give her the satisfaction of seeing me ruffled again.
“Hard to imagine Redford just misplacing its heir.”
“ Misplace .” She snorts somewhat bitterly. The realisation comes seconds too late, and my mind jumps to the article about Luciana Lanorythe. Another line of succession rerouted by tragedy. “Or did Redford just not bother to protect her?”
I’ve no answer for that, and I doubt she expects one. If Lady Redford herself is listening, she doesn’t react to her heir’s words.
So I risk the question that’s been itching since she first spoke in that protective tone. “Forgive me, my lady, but if nobody ever found her, then how did you know she died in the undercroft?”
“Maybe she showed me where her body was.”
Discomfort skims down my neck at her answer.
Right . What’s the suitable reaction for when somebody implies that a ghost led them to their nearly six-hundred-year-old corpse?
Fuck if I know. There’s probably a logical explanation hidden somewhere here, but she’s clearly enjoying my unease, and I doubt she’d indulge me were I to ask for sources.
For my own sanity, I assume she’s joking. Or lying. Probably both.
My expression shifts into ‘Wow, fascinating’ as opposed to ‘Hey, I’m kinda concerned for your neurological health,’ before I say, “Your family has an alarming lack of closure.”
The side eye she gives me is pure ‘challenge accepted’ . I’m almost too afraid to shadow her when she manoeuvres through the aisles, coming to a stop by a velvet-lined box that sits on display behind tempered glass.
I suppose expecting to see a string of pearls or a tiara is asking for too much, because what draws my attention isn’t glinting diamonds, but a length of fucking rope. Placed neatly and everything, as though it carries the title of Sheffolk’s most prized jewel.
I quirk a brow. “This your tiara?”
Francesca allows herself a small laugh, shaking her head slowly.
“Not mine; it belonged to a second cousin to the duchess, named Lady Elspeth Sheffolk. She married thrice, and all three husbands died under mysterious circumstances. The public had accused her for years, but it wasn’t until the summer of 1875 that she finally confessed.
Wrote it in her own blood on the wall of her bedchamber.
Stories say the servants screamed when they found it, thought the Devil had spoken or something. ”
“Wouldn’t blame them,” I slip in, noting for the first time that there’s a patch near the loop, where the rope is darker. Almost red. My eyes catch a single blonde thread, too fine to be fibre, embedded in the weave. It’s gone the moment I refocus, and the unease settles across my shoulders.
When I look up, Francesca has moved to the opposite side of the display case, and she’s watching me with unnerving patience.
Her eyes are dark, despite standing before about three different display lights.
Still, the shadows reflect something at me.
My ensuing loss of speech fuels her peculiar Sheffolk amusement, and she taps a manicured nail against the glass.
Just the one time, and my pride shrivels at the slight flinch I give.
“Once she was unburdened of her guilt…” Francesca lowers her voice slightly upon hearing workers bustling around. In that whisper, I detect a different accent peeking through. “She climbed to the top of the west wing and hung herself from one of the gargoyles.”
I tilt my head, playing at nonchalance. “And obviously your family kept the rope.” Then I risk a needling glance, wetting my lip before asking, “Is she the relative you feel closest to? This murderess…”
The freaky little witch doesn’t even blink at my prodding. “Is that a diplomatic question I’m hearing from you, Your Highness?”
“I’m off duty for the foreseeable future, my lady.”
She hums. “Off duty, is it? Funny that it sounds like you’re checking for my late fiancé’s blood beneath my fingernails.”
“Does it?” I conjure my best imitation of confusion, but the beginning of a smile fights against my pursed lips.
Across the glass, a flush climbs her throat, and she bites her lip against something better left unsaid. The entire moment feels as thin as the hair caught in the rope, and I refuse to be the one to snap it.
Francesca does it without hesitation. “The headlines should’ve been warning enough. Seems I’ve underestimated your infamous audacity.”
There are magazine columns in her words, each scandal headline emphasised with a smile. “I see you’ve read all about my greatest hits. Should I call you a fan?”
“Rather that than on trial for murder; I prefer comfortability.”
The veiled confession does something unspeakable to my pulse, and I resist the urge to say something glib.
She offers nothing else, just flicks out a dainty hand in a gesture for me to follow.
I barely have a chance to react before she’s walking, steps light as a feather whilst mine is heavy enough to remind me I’m a trespasser.
I keep my gaze on the way she fidgets with her dress—just barely—and think back on my mother’s words.
She wanted me to charm this haunted patch of land, and instead I’ve poked a bruise yet to heal.
The castle breathes as we walk, dust spitting from the stone walls.
Fuck, Eric, you sought to unsettle and got unsettled in return.
As much as I try to ignore it, the absence of a denial is unmistakable.
The tour continues, and somewhere between artefacts, it strikes me that none of this has been a performance.
At least, not for me.
Francesca is as aware of the breathing walls as I am, and she’s performing for them. For the ghosts and the odd shapes in the shadows that I pretend not to notice. I’m uncertain whether that frightens or thrills me, all I know is that I haven’t felt this awake in years.