14. Glass Manners #3
She breathes a delicate laugh, and her eyes go so soft that I’ve no choice but to look away.
In order to prolong the view of the picture, her hand briefly raises and frames mine.
Beneath my shirt, the hair on my arms rises to attention.
The contact is nothing. It’s also summoning heat up my neck.
She quietly thanks me, letting go with one last touch to my knuckles.
The rest of the drive unfolds in a quiet stretch. Battenwen Manor, unlike Redford, doesn’t greet us. She just sits there idly, allowing everyone passage. There are no guards, no waiting attendants, just Francesca leading me through winding corridors and up two separate sets of grand stairs.
She leaves me in the third-floor drawing room and says—half to me and half to herself, “Stay here; I’ll be just a moment. I’ll see if my aunt’s well enough for visitors.”
Once she’s gone, I step onto the balcony and absentmindedly begin repeatedly tapping ‘STAY’ into the stone, if only to soothe my mind.
Below, the gardens are heavy from the recent rain, some trees bent as though still carrying the weight of it.
Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the laughter of the gardeners, and every few seconds, a head pops up before disappearing into the greenery again.
The smell of wet soil permeates the air, so strong that I can instantly detect the nicotine creeping in.
It’s pathetic how easily my body responds, hooked to a scent I’ve tried to avoid.
I turn before I intend to, and there’s a man standing at the entrance, leaning against the window.
Mid-thirties, perhaps, and a ginger. Heavily tattooed, at least from what I can tell.
Most are hidden by the navy scrubs he dons, and he watches me with a curiosity that tiptoes into amusement.
“So, you’re the prince.”
Now there’s the heaviest non-Marzodian accent I’ve encountered since my university days. Scottish, by the sound of it, yet severely tempered by life in Sheffolk. He takes another slow drag.
My fingers twitch, teenage reflexes coming to life as my mouth prepares for the inhale. I deaden it. “You’re Lady Delphine’s nurse.”
That gets a laugh, loud and honest, as he steps closer to the balcony and flicks ash over it. “Wow, is that what Chess told you? Cheeky bugger.” He wipes his hand on his nurse-pants and offers it to me. “Albert Pryce. Though the adoption papers say Sheffolk .”
I stare at his hand. “Adoption papers.”
“Aye, I think Mammy got bored of cats once she hit a certain age. She used to tell people she picked me up on the side of a highway, but really it was the church she volunteered at.” The smile on his face is bright through the smoke. “Are you gonna shake my hand or…”
I take the offered greeting, noting his rough palms and strong grip. As our hands part, I file the new information away. Adopted by Delphine Sheffolk. Which, what, makes him a cousin to Hamish and Francesca’s late father?
Foundling turned kin.
“The nurse outfit is for fun, then?”
“Nah,” he snickers, glancing down at his pants and patting away ash.
“She has her days, you see. Doesn’t like the nurses, and some days she does, so I dress like one dependin’ on how lucid she is.
If she’s askin’ for a nurse that isn’t here and sees me in jeans—oof, we’re havin’ a fight.
But in blue? I’m Florence fuckin’ Nightingale. ”
I’m intrigued against my will and accepting his offer to return to the couches. He says he thought there was supposed to be two of me, and I tell him about Kai’s spontaneous fishing trip. In return, I get the same reaction Francesca and Philip gave me.
We’re halfway through a story about how Delphine once chased a priest from the manor—retelling dripping with affection even as he dips into his fear in that moment—when the air changes.
There’s no better way of describing it than that the very room whispers she’s back . The door swings open, and in saunters Francesca, colour drained from her face.
Albert swallows his tongue mid-sentence, buffers for a second, then tosses his third cigarette into the ashtray and stands. “Ach, Chess. She’s not doin’ well, then?”
“She’s with Sonya right now, but I couldn’t really get a word in,” she says, voice small. “As soon as she saw me, she…”
“Christ, thought you were your mum. I’m sorry, lass.” Francesca only nods once. “Was it somethin’ proper important you were after?”
She looks at me for the first time since entering. It’s brief but enough for my attention to perk up. “I just wanted to know if she remembered something… from her old journals. But it’s alright, we can come back on another day.”
We .
That’s practically a megaphone, yelling that the entire impromptu trip hinged on that musty book I discovered.
I don’t know what surprises me more: that I’m sitting in someone else’s home, bathing in cigarette smoke, or that I almost found myself entering a séance with an Alzheimer’s patient without having even agreed to it.
All because I wanted to be right.
Had to open my mouth. Had to point out who Cillian actually was.
For fuck’s sake, Eric.
I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know—but that’s when Bodoni Condensed Oblique struts in.
He’s old-money gentility wrapped in a box built from a weighty family name.
And fate fucking pushes him towards me. He touches Francesca’s back once he reaches our little soiree, kisses the top of her head, then bows too deeply at me—a bow low enough to pass as court protocol, yet simultaneously shallow enough to make his disrespect known.
I know his name before it’s said to me. It’s Baked Bean’s prime suspect. Cousin Edmund is what Francesca once referred to him as, her smile making a slow reappearance as she questions what he’s doing here.
“Came to check in on Nanna,” he says, offering a nod to Albert.
Battenwen’s resident nurse goes rigid, spine snapping straight like a man preparing for disaster. He looks over at me as I raise a questioning brow. ‘This fucking guy’, is what his expression tells me, and I grit my teeth against a chuckle.
“Thought you were staying in the city,” Francesca responds, tilting her head in curiosity.
“ Would’ve . But then Father went back to Marathid to see Percy and Mother. You know how it is.”
Looks like someone’s father lied to them.
Albert’s amused as hell by this information.
Francesca frowns at him, choosing not to out her uncle. “I’m surprised you didn’t accompany Percy, though.”
His laughter sounds dry and unamused as he casually seats himself in an armchair. “It’s quieter in Redford. At least you can hear yourself think, for better or worse.”
“You know how to think?” interjects Albert, and Edmund gives him a tight smile. “Proud of you, lad.”
Francesca shakes her head, then realises she’s been quite rude.
There’s a composed smile playing at the edges of her mouth, one I don’t like at all.
“Forgive me, I forgot myself. Edmund, allow me to properly introduce you to our guest, as befits his station. Prince Eryxon Atherbourne, Crown Prince of Marzod. Your Highness, please meet my cousin, Lord Edmund, heir to Marathid.”
Edmund inclines his head respectfully. “An honour indeed, Your Royal Highness. I’ve heard much about your looming visit. Quite the stir you’ve created.” His eyes flick for a moment towards Francesca, searching for praise because he smiled and spoke the right way.
J ust like Ham-Ham .
“Attention seems to follow wherever I go,” I say at last, dipping my chin in greeting. “As heir, I’m certain you understand the burden of being noticed , Cousin Edmund.”
He smiles when I say it. Cousin Edmund .
But that smile comes a heartbeat too late.
Albert, on the other hand, laughs at him without a care.
I check my phone despite there being no new notifications and add, “Francesca, we really should get going. Kai and Hamish just got back from their fishing trip.”
Edmund’s reaction is microscopic, visible only because I’m searching for it. A son hearing that his father’s spending time with someone that isn’t him. Doing their old tradition. He doesn’t look at me, yet his gaze bores into me anyway.
“Must sting, eh, Eddie-boy?” snorts Albert.
“Bertie!” Francesca exclaims, cheeks red with mortification. Her cousin forces a laugh, if only to not escalate whatever silly rivalry he’s got going on with his uncle. “Urgh, stop it. C’mon, Ed, you can ride with us, if you want?—”
“Not so fast,” comes Albert’s teasing voice just as I push to my feet. “I’ll drive him back to Redford myself. He promised to help me clear out the library two months back; isn’t that right? Never bloody turned up.”
Edmund reddens. In irritation or embarrassment, I don’t know. “It’s fine,” he insists to Francesca and endeavours for a smirk. “Go on without me; I knew this madman would come collecting eventually.”
She hesitates, but I’m already sick of this performance. I cross to her, ignoring the other men’s eyes, and slide a hand around her waist because come high or hell, I will drag her out of this place before they start bitching again.
Edmund notices the contact, how I gently fist her skirt, warning that if I’m forced to stay any longer, I’ll leave impolitely and without regard for their opinion.
“Bertie, good to meet you,” I greet, matching his amused smirk.
“Pleasure’s all mine, my prince.”
I don’t bother saying goodbye to Edmund, and he pretends not to watch my hand on Francesca as we exit. There’s the beginning of another squabble between him and Albert, but the door swallows the sound when it shuts.
Francesca affectionately apologises for both of their behaviour, and I shrug it off, desperate to reach the car. If Redford stresses me out, Battenwen makes me fucking itch . Philip opens the car for us, and then we’re off.
Not five minutes into the drive, my phone buzzes with a message from Kai.
Kai
bro our trip got cut short
hamish got a call from someone and then we had to head to the police station
i’m sad, wth
didn’t even get to catch anything on my own
anyway, i’ll explain later bc it’s kinda juicy
could’ve heard wrong but i think francesca has a stalker???
A stalker.
I’m so fucking finished with the Sheffolks.