14. Glass Manners #2
“Of a kind. Now, what are you doing here? This area is off limits.” She gives a resigned little huff and hangs her cloak alongside six others. When she spots the book I’m holding, I presume she figures I’ve been snooping for some time. “Did you follow me?”
“I followed the mildew, actually.”
‘ The ’ instead of ‘ my ’, because I’m not claiming the smell just yet.
As soon as I say it, however, the air resets.
The fungal bouquet I’ve been carrying like a blushing bride withers away into nothing, and I smell like Amouage’s Reflection Man again.
Its scent is almost overpowering now that the mildew has taken its haunting elsewhere.
Francesca pauses too, or rather she glitches , eyes shooting towards me.
A heartbeat too long passes.
Oh, fuck me.
So she has been smelling the dead linen. Anxiety fires a rebuttal to my thoughts: ‘Francesca knows you noticed the smell, which means she knows that you knew you stank, you fucking social disaster.’
But then—no.
There’s no fucking way.
If the smell just vanished, empirically, it couldn’t have been clinging to me. Unless I’ve been exorcised mid-conversation. She continues to stare, less judgemental and more… surprised, as if she didn’t expect me to register the change.
Before she can question me, I take one step forward and change the subject. “Seeing as I have you here, my lady, would it be possible for you to explain something to me? What exactly is this?” I turn the book towards her and notice the colour fading from her cheeks.
“Where did you get that?” She grabs it from my grasp in three steps and places it on a shelf without even looking.
“It fell from a shelf. Or maybe it jumped; you never really know with this place,” I deadpan.
But she isn’t amused in the slightest bit. In fact, she’s fidgeting with her hands, unaware that she’s tugging at loose skin, causing her index finger to bleed slightly more.
“The books here are private.”
“Is it because they’re filled with lies?” I retort. “Because he’s written as being a ‘loyal steward’, title trimmed to fit your family’s narrative. Unfortunately for you, I recognise him.”
Her posture perks up at that, and she asks in a strained voice, “What do you mean you recognise him?”
It seems Lady Homicide can’t hide her interest in my answer. “He’s the youngest brother of the first king of Marzod.”
“That… no. We have no record of that here, only Lancaster and—” she falters for a moment, stumbling over the pronunciation of “ Godwyn ”.
Convenient amnesia, how quaint. So much conviction in that irritated, prim voice, and yet so little truth. It’s almost offensive that the man who’s caused me such grief has been written off as a footnote here at Redford, as if the castle itself mocks me.
Which is why I take petty satisfaction in informing Francesca, “That’s because Cillian was disowned. Lancaster sent him here to Godwyn to keep the Crown’s shame neat and tidy. You know, for people who claim to hate the royal family so much, you’re astonishingly uninformed about us.”
“If I’m uninformed, then it’s only because your family never told the truth regarding anything that could potentially make you look small,” she snaps back, quick as a whip.
“I mean, how could we possibly have known that Cillian was royalty? Let’s not forget it was, again, your ancestor who came here, married Adelina and nearly rewrote our history in the process.
So if there’s confusion about who Cillian was, maybe direct your complaints to G—” she cuts herself off at the last second, halting her fiery rebuttal.
Elbows pressed into her sides, she tries to make herself as small as possible, mumbling something about how she has somewhere to be.
I stop her at the last moment, of course, my hand gently locking around her wrist. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch, and my body rebels against reason as my thumb circles that beat.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She looks down, and I relax my grip slightly but don’t let go. For the first time since meeting her, she doesn’t have a clever retort. Beneath the yellow glow of the chandeliers, her eyes appear glossy, and I think, ‘Fuck, she’s going to cry.’
But no.
Instead of even acknowledging my bum attempt at an apology—because, at the end of the day, she is a Sheffolk—she glances at my hand, then back at me. “Are you free later this afternoon?”
Stabbing me would’ve had me less startled.
Fucking hell, I should ask why. I should question why she’s changed the subject, why she chokes on Godwyn’s name as though something tries to crawl up her throat.
I don’t do any of that except tilt my head and say, “The fact that I’m here under light surveillance should tell you that my calendar’s painfully open.
I can email you a copy of my blank itinerary, if that helps.
” Her lips part, and the smallest snort of laughter slips out, followed by a swift apology. “Where do you want me, duchess?”
The question hangs between us, and I momentarily hate myself for putting it there.
Too tense, too indecent. Foolishly, I latch onto a quick fixation and watch her pupils dilate in curiosity.
That stare becomes glass, and I wait for my fidgety fingers to drop it.
For my father’s disappointed voice to come booming from behind the bookshelves.
A blush creeps up her throat, and still, I don’t drop my gaze.
I’ve failed enough tests like these in childhood.
Eventually, she says, “The tree where we bury our inconveniently deceased. Three o’clock. Don’t be late.”
Then she turns, letting my hand slip away. The scent of her—lavender and a hint of rooibos—stays a heartbeat longer than she does.
And when the door shuts behind her, the absurdity sets in.
Secret antechambers, ouroboros symbols, crimson cloaks and bloodstained fingers…
Fantastic . Before the end of my stay, I’ll either have been fully seduced or initiated into whatever the fuck Sheffolk has going on.
In any case, I’ll end up on my knees for something I could only dream of understanding.
S ilence honours the faithful.
She rewards my obsession, the slow hunger that dries out my throat and tenses my muscles until they ache.
The less I do and say, the more she gives.
Say less, mean more. How I wished to question Francesca, turning over every Sheffolk brick until I understood the very foundation of this family.
But I’ve tempered myself these last few days, and Silence lays a gift at my feet.
Two, if we’re counting the Bodoni Condensed Oblique I have the misfortune of meeting. But let me rewind.
First, there’s my introduction to what Francesca calls the gatepath.
The endless artery of a road begins in the woods behind her cottage and links every family estate like a chain, stretching from her aunt’s estate to Redford, with a detour to Marathid Manor somewhere in the belly of it, and many others.
One could drive for hours and still be trapped within her family lines.
The road is wide but bracketed on either side by trees, then ornate fencing as though the forest needs containment.
Every few kilometres, a narrow turnoff slips through the undergrowth towards a gate leading back onto public roads.
Come 3pm, Philip drives us to Battenwen Manor. I keep counting the turnoffs to remind myself there is a world beyond Redford, and accessing it has potentially become a whole lot easier.
If I play my cards right, that is.
Tension clings to the inside of the car like fog, and Francesca practically tries to burrow into the oversized coat she’s thrown on.
She stays silent, and I don’t even bother attempting conversation.
Philip’s massive hands are in perfect view at 10 and 2, and he’s sitting so rigidly I’m certain that if Francesca asked, he’d drive us straight into the lake. The car hums as it eats the road ahead.
“I hope your brother’s not too upset,” she says finally. Awkward humour injects itself into her next few sentences. “That we didn’t invite him, that is. After all, he strikes me as the dramatic younger sibling, and here you are, abandoning him for the rest of the day.”
“He’s with your uncle,” I say without looking, counting the seconds until we pass the next turnoff. “Apparently, they’ve gone fishing.”
The effect is instant. Fog thickens, and the tension becomes so dense that I feel as though I’m being pressed back into the seat.
“ Fishing ,” she repeats, briefly meeting Philip’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “With Uncle Hamish.”
“You sound surprised, duchess.”
This time I look at her, and she mirrors my subtle turn. In stark contrast to the panic I anticipated, grief flickers in her eyes. Beneath it, something else pushes through: relief.
“No, I, uh—it’s just, Uncle hasn’t gone fishing in… I don’t even know. He used to do that with Edmund, you see. But not for a long while, I think.”
I recall Hamish’s swollen eyes the day I met him and how he lingers around Francesca, seeking any and all attention as though trying to stay visible.
The thought makes me ache, I realise, in some basal way because I recognise that loneliness.
I don’t exactly know how to erase the frown on her face or pull Hamish from his despondency, so I offer what I do understand.
Evidence.
I thumb my way into Kai’s chat, clicking into the selfie he sent me not even fifteen minutes ago.
He’s in the foreground, obviously, beaming as though he’s just discovered the key to world peace.
Hamish is behind him on a log, holding up a tiny trout that definitely doesn’t justify my brother’s pride.
The Lord of Marathid is sunburnt as fuck too, but he’s smiling through the pain. I tilt the screen towards Francesca.
Kai
look at our son
we named him troutyxon de flatface
after you btw
love you bro